Wings of the Storm Crow
by bellaknoti
Summary: A storm knocked out my power, but that wasn't the only thing it did. It turned my life upside down. On my beach was something impossible. Someone impossible. Zevran doesn't belong here, in this 21st century world; I guess it's my turn to protect him.
1. Beachcombing

_Once upon a time, I was trawling the kmeme, and I saw a prompt for a Mary-Sue fic. "What would happen if one of the DA men showed up on your doorstep?" And, of course, since it's kmeme, it was supposed to involve sexings. The fill was from a girl who was living in her college dorm, and involved Alistair, Zevran, and a tube of Neosporin. I didn't like it; as a woman in my 30's, it had little to do with me, and I felt dissatisfied with it. I was sick, at the time, and spent two days in bed. During that time, I scribbled twenty pages in a notebook, by hand. I typed it and stashed it, never looking at it again. I just read it over, though, and with all the Tent Party fills showing up lately, I thought, hell, why not. I don't Mary-Sue my fics, much, so... indulge me? Lily is about as close to me as I can get without it actually being me. So, in an AU where my name is Lily, I am single, and still live by the sea (instead of on Puget Sound)..._

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

It's just me and my cat on the edge of civilization, where the forest meets the sea, on a lonely stretch of beach in the Pacific NorthWest. It's only a few miles to get into town, but my road only has a few other homes on it, and dead-ends at my house. When the storms rage, I lose my power; happens so often here on the coast, especially in the winter, that everyone at least has a wood-stove. Me, I have a fireplace.

The lights went last night. Tonight, we sit in the silence of the eye, covered in fog. Looking out the window, I see someone sprawled on the beach, face-down in the sand. The tide is coming in, and that means the storm is coming, as well.

I live like a gypsy; I don't like things that depend on batteries or electricity, besides my computer. I keep oil lamps for when the power goes out, because kerosene never loses its charge. I keep swords and daggers in the house because they never have to be reloaded, and because they go so well with my Renaissance costumes.

Tonight, there is a drowner or a drug addict on my beach, which will amount to the same thing if I don't go out there and at least drag them back to the road. I hang a dagger from the belt that I hastily strap on over my jeans. I throw on a sweater and grab a lantern, lighting it with tinder from the fireplace. Outside, the wind is picking up, and I hasten to the figure, still laying motionless. As I draw closer, it occurs to me that it might be just a body, and I pause, but either way, I still need to approach. I draw my blade, just in case it's a zombie. Hey, you never know, right?

It's wearing a cloak, and I swallow. Only so many people around here cosplay like that, and we all attend the same events. I rush over, suddenly certain that it is someone I know. I drop the dagger point down in the sand and set the lantern down. Throwing back the hood of the cloak, I am greeted with a head full of straight, blonde hair. There is only one of us with hair like that. "Bethany!" I shout, and grab at her shoulder to push her over onto her back.

I succeed in getting her on her back and then freeze. It's not Bethany. "She" is actually a "he", and he's wearing leather armour. I brush his hair away from his face and encounter a pointed ear. Wow, someone who went through with the surgery. I put my fingers to his neck, but I have never been very good at finding a pulse, so I lean down to see if I can hear him breathing, because the hardened leather doesn't give enough to show it.

In the next moment, I am flat on my back with the dagger to my throat, all that blonde hair creating a darkness around his face, now that the lamp is behind him. I swallow, my heart beating wildly.

"Who are you?" he hisses. I feel indignant, and force down my panic. My voice is much steadier than I feel when I answer.

"Your rescuer, if you didn't have me at knife-point. You were laying face-down on the beach here, and a storm is coming in." He looks out to sea, and a fortunately timed lightning bolt jumps between the clouds, highlighting the angry peaks of the breakers. "We don't have much time," I say, eyeing how close they have got since I left the house.

He scrambles back and off of me. I get to my feet and grab the lantern. He doesn't give me back my dagger, and there isn't time to argue. The wind has already picked up. I run for the house, but even so, I am drenched to the skin by the time I get there. I take him around back to the mud-room, since we're both covered in sand. The downside to not having a generator is cold showers.

I hang the lantern on a hook and turn around. Speaking to the darkness under his hood, I say, "The water is cold, but you can shower in there," and I point to the little cubicle. Dad and I put it in after mom complained one summer about all the sand in the kitchen.

"Shower?"

"Yeah. You've gotta be covered in sea salt and gods know what else. Trust me, sand fleas in your underwear? Not funny." I hand him a towel and one of our old bath robes. "Just pull the handle up. Watch out, it sprays hard." I look at him over my shoulder as I put my hand to the latch of the kitchen door. "Don't forget to bring the lamp in." I can see his eyes glittering under the hood, and he nods.

I strip off my sweater in the kitchen, showering sand all over the floor. Mom would have had a fit, if she were still here. I kick off my boots and finish undressing, down to my under-shirt and panties. I hear the water kick on and a muffled curse. I smile and head for the bedroom. I throw on an old velvet dress, catch myself in the mirror and throw my chain belt on over top of it to show I actually do have a waist.

I take a basket with me, into the kitchen and gather up my clothes. A cold draft and a howl of wind rush into the house as the door opens and closes, and I straighten. I hold the basket on my hip. "If you hand me your clothes, I can throw them in the washer, and-" Then he turns, and I see three sinuous lines curving across his cheek. He looks at me with eyes of liquid amber, and whatever I was going to say flies out of my head.

I am caught staring, and I know I've gone pale. He regards me steadily for a moment, then holds my dagger out to me, pommel first. "I apologise for my behaviour on the beach," he says. "I was disoriented. Please, do not be frightened; I am grateful for your hospitality."

I nod, mutely, and accept the dagger. I lay it aside on the kitchen counter, my mind racing. Surely, this is just some cosplayer... with a Spanish accent, and dedicated enough to get a tattoo... I swallow, hard. All the sci-fi and fantasy I've read over the years has actually prepared me for a moment such as this, and I employ it now. I hold the basket out to accept his clothing and smile. "You should lay your armour out outside. It will catch the rain, but with the storm keeping it moist, the salt won't have time to do its worst."

He looks at me and I notice he doesn't have his armour. "Yes, I realize," he says. "I did that already. I thought perhaps the scent of the sea upon it would sour by the fire, and I would only have to wet it again in the morning." I nod, chagrined. But of course – he, like me, grew up by the sea.

"Of course," I say, and dip my head. "Your clothes?" I prompt, and he hands over a wet and sandy pile of cloth. "I'll return shortly. Please, make yourself comfortable by the fire." I take the lantern from him, motion toward the living room, and move toward the mud room again. I have to pass him, and I can almost feel his eyes rake over me. I blush hotly, and am grateful that he cannot see my face.

I throw everything in the washer, dump some soap on it, and set it to run. As soon as the power comes back, it'll turn on, and I'll hear it: the harbinger of my return to the interwebs and the rest of the civilized world. Until then, it's just me, him, and mostly primitive living.

No one will ever believe this; not in a million years. I approach cautiously, still not sure I quite believe, myself, but he is sitting on my hearth, examining the contents of the Dutch oven that holds the remains of my pot roast from earlier. "Are you hungry? Please, feel free to eat," I offer, and motion to my bowl and fork, rinsed and ready for a second helping.

"Will you not eat as well?"

"I did, before I found you; you can see where I have carved off," I say, handing him the knife.. "I would join you, but I'm stuffed. Help yourself." I hang the copper kettle on the hook and push it over the fire with the poker. I rise and fetch mugs from the kitchen. "Coffee, tea, or chocolate?" I ask, poking my head out. He looks startled.

"Ah, I would dearly love to take you up on your offer of coffee, but I fear it would keep me from sleep, at this hour."

"Tea, then," I say, and smile. "What's your flavour? You want chai?" He looks confused, so I bring him the tin, and he breathes deep. His eyes close and he smiles with pleasure. I knew it; I smile back. "Somehow, I thought so," I murmur. I scoop the tea into my locket spoons and set them in the mugs to await the hot water. Meanwhile, he has begun to dig into my roast, hesitantly. I wave a hand. "Feed yourself. Do not short yourself on my account; I have plenty." he nods, serves himself a larger portion, and eventually ends up wolfing down most of the roast, all the vegetables, and two cups of chai with cream and honey. He dislikes my sugar.

After a time, he sits back, sated, and regards me with hooded eyes. "I must ask, are you so careless with all of your visitors?"

The question catches me off-guard. "Careless?"

"You let me into your home in the dark of night, feed me, and offer me shelter, yet you do not ask my name. Why is that?"

My heart beats faster. How do I play this? I must be very, very careful here. "I have questions of my own. I propose a game: an answer for an answer?" At his nod, I continue. "I did not ask your name, because I already know it, Zevran." He startles back, shocked, and this answers another question: he is who he appears to be. That's both frightening and reassuring. At least I know where I am with this man, but at the same time, the fact of his presence is sending chills up my spine. I work very hard at nonchalance. "Now it is my turn. What is the last thing you remember before waking on my beach?"

He stares at me for a long moment, then says, "I was on a ship, going back to Antiva. We were caught in a terrible storm, and... things are hazy. I think the ship might have sunk." He is watching me now, wary. "How do you know who I am?"

Of course, he doesn't recognize me. My avatar looks a hell of a lot like me – my inner Mary-Sue always gets the best of me in games like this – but I'm not Dalish, I don't have the tattoo, and I'm curvier than my lean counterpart. However, we have the same profile; I took a photograph of myself from the side, so I could make sure of that. I lean forward, into the light cast by the fire, and look at him very seriously. Now is the moment of truth. "Look at me, very carefully." I turn my face to the fire, giving him my profile. When I hear his sharp intake of breath, I say, very quietly, "I am Lily."

"No," he says, harshly, going tense. "You are not." His hand slashes through the air in negation. "I saw her die. I held her in my arms." His voice is so full of pain. Why did I do the "ultimate sacrifice" ending? I've been asking myself that same question for weeks. Fangirl that I am, I cried for half an hour over it. Ah, I'm such a sap.

I sigh. "I know." I glance over at him, then look back into the fire. "It is my turn. What was your last thought, before I found you on the beach?"

"It was of her," he says, shortly. "Am I in the Fade?"

I laugh, but he is not amused. I shake my head. "No, this is very much real." I wonder whose Zev this is. He spoke of the ending I played; but is he from the game, or from my writing? He also said he held me in his arms; that's out of my writing, but could be from the game, too. Gods, who knows. I decide to try an experiment. "Ask me a question with an answer only your Lily would know."

He rubs his lip, considering. "Ah, I have it. Tell me: where were we, the first time I confessed my love for you?"

I stare at him. Surely this is a trick question. I lick my lips and take a deep breath. "When we stood at the gates of Denerim, I told you that I loved you, and you said, 'Yes, I know that'. You couldn't say more, but I could see it in your eyes. I just wanted to hear it. But... you started calling me '_amora_' after we killed Taliesen. I didn't want to say anything about it, in case you didn't realize you were doing it." I look up at him then, and he is trying very hard to cover up his agony. "I wish I still had the earring, so I could show you," I whisper, "But it... didn't come with me." There, that's about as close to the truth as I can get.

He looks at me for a long time, in silence. I shift uncomfortably and make another cup of tea, just to occupy my hands. I add another log to the fire, and he startles me when he speaks again. "Assuming I believe your tale, how is this possible?"

I look back at him. "Honestly? I really don't know. It shouldn't be, at all. We must be an amusement to the gods."

He leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "I still have questions." I nod, clutching my cup. "You are human. You have no tattoo; your body is not hardened by battle. You wear her face, but you are not her, and yet, you know impossible things. How can this be?"

I take a deep breath. "I would never lie to you, but I must choose my words with care. I do not wish for there to be any misunderstanding here. This world, where we are now, is not Thedas." He blinks, surprised, and I hasten to continue. "I could reach Thedas from here, but only in a limited way, and that door closed behind me when I killed the archdemon. I died that day, and all that I was, everything I had, all that I held, died with me. I can never return, but I have existence here, as a human, yes.

"Something strange and magical has happened, because this should not be possible. You should not have been able to reach this world. No native of Thedas has ever done it. The people of my world cross over, but, until now, the portal only worked in one direction. Crossing over causes us to change, and we become a reflection of our inner selves. I became Dalish, and you were witness to all that happened to me, before the end. When one of us, the people of this world, dies on Thedas, we cannot return; we come back here, and all that we became, all that we had, is lost."

I drag my eyes up out of the fire and look at him, look him in the eye. This is total madness, but _he's sitting right there_. "I am less than I was, it is true. This is not the body that you have touched, but her memories are mine; I am she: heart, mind, and soul. Zev, I did not know I would leave you that day. Riordan was meant to take that blow for me, to spare us, but he fell; you saw him fall. There wasn't time to explain, and you would have tried to stop me... In truth, I wanted you to stop me, and so I could not say... because it was my duty as a Grey Warden. I had to kill the demon, and I was the only one going up, since I left Alistair at the gate. When I saw Riordan fall, I knew it spelled my death. Please forgive me; I never wanted to leave you behind."

"Tell me about the earring," he demands, his voice a harsh whisper.

I answer at once, creating the outlines of the shape with my fingers. "It had a red gem, set in gold; it was beautiful. You took it off a Rivaini merchant, your first contract. When you gave it to me, I refused it at first, because you said you meant it as some form of payment, and it hurt my heart that you would think, after all that we had come through together, that I would wish to be paid. But you came to me again, later. You kissed me, and pressed it into my hand; you said you wanted me to have it, that it mattered to you. I lay down on the bed in our room at The Pearl and rested my head upon your thigh; you took a hollow needle from your tattoo kit, and pierced my ear, making a permanent mark upon me. I never took it out."

My heart is in my throat. After all this, and such a strange miracle brought to me on the tides, on the wings of the storm crow, if I cannot convince him, it will break my heart. This, here, this will prove if it is my Zev or canon Zev: the earring scene I just described came directly out of my own writing.

"Lily?" he asks, suddenly vulnerable. I set my mug aside and swallow, but the tears come anyway.

"Yes, Zev?" He looks at me for a long moment.

"If I touch you, will it break the spell?"

"You already had me on my back on the beach," I remind him. I twist my fingers together to keep them from shaking.

He frowns. "Yes. However, I did not touch your skin."

My breath catches. "I don't know," I whisper. "I hope not."

He slides out of his chair and goes to his knees before me. Slowly, he reaches up and cups my cheek in his hand, then brushes away the tears with his thumb. "I dislike your tears," he murmurs.

I close my eyes, leaning into his hand. I open my mouth to speak but he silences me with a kiss, trapping my face between his palms. I whimper and press forward as he deepens the kiss, parting my lips and exploring me with this tongue. I wrap my arms around his waist and cling to him, and he makes a muffled, choked sound of desire.

I begin to tremble. This man is warm and _alive_, hard muscle under my hands, his breath across my cheek, his hands in my hair, and his tongue wrapping around mine. I hardly know what to do with myself as his hand slips down the back of my neck and across my shoulder. The only thing I know for certain is that he can have anything he wants. How many times did I wish for exactly this as I slunk off to bed after hours in front of the screen, thinking of him? Just this morning, as I finished the last chapter, where I died in his arms, didn't I spend the entire day aching with anguish, as though it had truly happened?

He breaks the kiss to pull me against his chest, and bury his face in my neck. "You still smell the same," he whispers, after a moment, and I start.

"I do?"

"_Sì_," he says, pulling back. He rolls to his feet and takes my hands, tugging me up to join him. "Wood smoke and wind, rosemary and rain." Rosemary. I only wrote about that, too; it _must_ be him, _my_ Zev, not just canon. Oh, gods, what is going on? I hug him and bury my face in his neck, and he puts his arms around me. He smells like cinnamon and fire, beeswax and leather, even after all the time he spent on the ocean; I smell that, too, but underneath it, it's just him.

One last test, to prove it to myself. In the tales, everything always comes in threes. _If he knows this, I'll stop questioning_, I promise myself. All the hours on the Elven language page, teaching myself a fantasy language, I could never have predicted that it would have a real-life application. If he really is my Zev, he can speak Elvish, because I wrote that I taught him. So I say to him the last words I spoke before dying on the roof of Fort Drakon, the scene I only wrote this morning, that I have never shared with anyone. It is still sitting in my notebook, waiting to be typed, and had me agonized all day long. I lean up and whisper in his ear: "_Ma serannas, Zevran, na lath bor'ar revas_." _Thank you, your love set me free._

He gasps, his arms tightening around me almost painfully, crushing me to his chest. "Lily, _ragazza mia_, it _is_ you," he whispers fiercely.

I nod, spilling tears upon his neck. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake. "I don't know how, but the gods have seen fit to bring us together."

"Then we will not waste another moment," he says. He tangles his fingers in my hair and turns my head, capturing my mouth with his own. I whimper and melt against him. He is amazing. Impossible and amazing, and I no longer care if I'm going crazy or it's all in my head – I can feel him, smell him, taste him, touch him, and it is enough. I am breathless and weak in the knees when he pulls back from me again, a small eternity later. My eyes are still closed as he brushes his lips along my cheek, and I gasp a little as his breath washes across ear. "Your bed. Show me it," he commands, his voice low and raspy.

I nod and turn, taking his hand, and lead him to the back of the house. I can feel the rough skin of his calluses against the back of my hand. Everything is screaming at me at once. This can't be real, this can't be real, but how do I deny the evidence of my senses? I open the door, and a cold blast of air greets me. I forgot to open up the back of the house, since he showed up on the beach, and now my room is cold as an icebox. I shiver in the dichotomy of the warmth of him at my back and the cold of the room in front of me.

A stripe of the weak light from the living room fire falls across the bed, showing the four-poster my parents left me, and the blue and white Irish chain quilt my gran made when I was small. I freeze, the coldness of the room somehow reawakening the terrifying knowledge of what I am about, here. In some ways, I know this man very, very well, but in a few, very critical ways, I do not know him at all. It's been over a year since my last relationship, and here is the most sexual person I have ever known about, standing behind me, brushing my hair off my neck so that he can kiss me there, just at the curve of my shoulder.

I shiver for an entirely different reason. He lets go of my hand, his right arm coming about my waist, and I lose a breath. I don't realize he's unhooked my belt until I hear it clatter to the floor, and I tremble. "You are nervous," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin. "Why are you nervous? Have we not done this many, many times? I know it has been long, but surely not so long that you would become _afraid_ of me."

"I am not afraid," I whisper, "Don't stop." He takes me at my word, plunging his left hand into my hair to lift it out of his way so he can bite the back of my neck, and my knees go weak. I whimper, and clutch his arm with my left hand. He steps closer and presses himself tightly against my back. The solidity of him is reassuring; I feel a heady rush of desire that has me suddenly losing a breath and sagging against him, and he laughs darkly.

I turn and wrap my arms around his neck, returning myself to more familiar territory with a kiss, and his hands brush along the fabric, soon discovering that the nap runs upward. Taking this as an invitation, he runs his hands up my body, over my thighs, my stomach. He breaks away to begin kissing my throat; feeling bolder by his hands across my breast, I reach between us and tug loose the knot in the robe's belt. He advances on me, pushing me backward step by step until my calves meet the side of the bed.

I am busy exploring his shoulders and chest, so he draws the dress up over my thighs. Since I've loosened the robe, it falls open; suddenly we are skin to skin, and I cry out from surprise at the heat of him. I can feel his grin against my skin, and he returns to my neck to whisper to me some more. "You act as though this is our first time, _cara mia_."

I shiver as the dress rises higher with the stroking of his palms over my hips. "It is, for me," I reply, pushing the robe over his shoulder. It falls down and to his elbow, but he is drawing back, looking at me again. I whimper, completely undignified. "Please don't stop," I whisper, reaching out for him.

"You are not a virgin again, I hope," he says, eyeing me warily.

I laugh, and it breaks my tension. "No, nothing like that." I run my hands down his chest and over his stomach, feeling the ripple of the muscles and the ridges of the scars.

"Good," he growls. He gathers the skirt of my dress in both hands and pulls it up and off, over my head. The robe hits the floor at the same time as the dress, and he presses forward again, both of us naked, skin to skin from shoulder to ankle. I gasp, falling backwards, and reflexively grab him around the shoulders, pulling him down with me. There's no time for me to get nervous; he kisses my neck and his hands are suddenly everywhere. It's all I can do to keep up with him, and I try to touch every inch of his skin, try to memorize him with my hands in case this is the only time I'll ever have.

I arch for him as his hands slide under me, and he uses the leverage to lift me, easily, and turn me over. My skin is on fire, I feel like I'm glowing, I can't catch my breath. He is ruining me for anyone else, ever. He pulls me upward against his chest, his hands on my breasts, and I am crying out and writhing for him; in the next moment, he is inside me, claiming me, and he feels so good, so perfect. I am helpless, quaking and moaning and whispering his name like a prayer.

I've never had someone bring me over the edge more than once; I've always become to sensitive to touch after the first one, but something in the way he moves, the way he touches me, never lets that happen. I cannot pull away; I don't want him to stop, not ever. I begin to lose my voice, and I sob, my stomach muscles exhausted; I lost count after five. His breathing goes ragged as the fires claim me once again, and as I shudder for him once more, I feel him pulse heavily within me. He moans, low and under his breath, and the sound is so unbelievably sexy.

He rolls to the side, pulling me down with him, both of us still breathless and sweaty, and wraps his arms around me, holding me to his chest. I pull at the quilt with trembling hand, my arm barely obeying me and giving out half way through the motion. He laughs softly and pulls it over us. I am still shaking, my thighs trembling and my knees refusing to work properly, as I stumble to the bathroom a few minutes later.

It is there, sitting in the dark, with a wet wash-cloth in my hand, when I come back to myself and suddenly realize, we did not use any form of birth control. I gasp. "Oh, shit!" I whisper. How could I have forgotten? He made me crazy with desire, and I barely believed, even as it was happening.

His voice is tired as he asks me, "What is it?"

He heard me. "Uh... I don't know how to tell you this, but... I forgot something really important." I finish cleaning up, trying to order my thoughts. How do you tell someone like him about condoms? I am silent too long.

"You remember now, I take it?" he prompts.

I sigh, rising, and hustle back to the bed. "The possibility of babies," I whisper, crawling back into bed feeling absolutely frigid. He pulls me into his arms, for which I am extremely grateful.

"You once said that it is very difficult for a Warden to conceive."

I cover my face with both hands and shake my head. "I'm not a Warden any more," I moan. He tugs my hands away. I look up, and he is frowning. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I should have said..." He sighs, and I wait, with increasing trepidation as the silence stretches on. He lays back and pulls me into his shoulder. I press my ear to his heart; it beats a little too quickly. Eventually I can't stand it any more. "Forgive me?"

He still doesn't respond right away, staring up at the ceiling, his face unreadable. At last, he sighs again, and shakes his head. "Yes, yes, _è bene, dolcezza_. I just never thought of myself in that way before. It has never come up." He draws my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers, then looks at me. "If you are content with the possibility, then so am I."

I am shocked. "Are you serious?"

He frowns again. "Have I ever said to you a thing I did not mean?"

I shake my head. "No, no it's not that. I'm just... surprised, is all." I smile weakly. "Any other time the subject has come up, the results have not been exactly pleasant for me."

He arches an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Well... my last... The last time I had a moment where I thought I was pregnant, my lover at the time became extremely angry with me, and left me."

"Coward," he says, his lip curling, and I smile.

"If I fall asleep now, will you still be here when I wake?" He tightens his arms around me, looking troubled again.

"I swear to you: if I am not, it will not be by my design."

I nod. "I can accept that," I say. "May the gods see fit for us to greet the dawn together, then." I cuddle down into the warmth of his arms and hope like hell that if they decide to take him back, me being wrapped around him will take me with him. There are still so many unanswered questions, but I don't want to question fickle Fate; I accept my gift, and give thanks. I don't know how it happened, how it's possible, but I intend to make the most of it, whatever comes next.


	2. Life Lessons

There is this horrible moment of panic, when I wake, and I am alone in my bed. I sit up abruptly, looking around. The grey light filtering in through the curtains casts the room in familiar NorthWest gloom, and I can hear the rain pelting down outside; the storm has not yet passed. I pass my hand over the pillow, where he lay last night, and a strand of yellow hair tangles through my fingers. I look down at it, stretch it between them. It is not my imagination, and my hair is dark brown. It's not even the right length for me to fool myself; far too short. Something painful clutches at my heart, and I think maybe I'm going to cry, but then I smell it: coffee.

I scramble from the bed and clutch my waist as I immediately break out in goosebumps. It is still frozen cold in the house, and I hurry to the dresser. I yank on some panties and fasten my bra with trembling fingers, then throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Over the t-shirt, I pile a flannel, and then a hoodie. I tuck my fingers into the sleeves and stuff my hands in my pockets as I make my way to the living room.

I find a pot by the fire that has the coffee in it. I pour myself a mug, and fetch my cigarettes from my coat. Stepping onto the front porch, I light one, and then jump, as Zev appears out of nowhere, knocking sand from his boots against the boards.

He is wearing one of my old cloaks; he must have found my garb trunk. As he turns, I can see that he's got dressed out of it, and I smile. Most of the clothes in there belonged to my ex, and I kept them out of spite, since I was the one who made all of them. It makes me happy to see them being put to better use, though my tailor's eye tells me that they need adjusting. Zev is broader of shoulder, but leaner. It will have to wait until the power comes back on.

I pause. Power. How am I going to explain electricity?

He looks up at me, and flashes me a grin. "You're still here!" I say, and dash over to him. I throw my arms around his neck and he catches me, laughing.

"_S__ì__, cara_, I am still here. It has been a most eventful morning," he says, kissing the corner of my jaw. I smell wind, rain, and ocean on him; his hair, damp from the storm, sticks to my cheek, and I close my eyes, clinging to him. He's real. I feel the shift in him when he realizes I'm not just hugging him for a hug, and he wraps me in his arms, his hand sliding into my hair. "Shh... I am still here," he whispers. He pulls back, after a moment, and takes my hand. "Come, you did not eat."

"Uh... just let me finish my coffee," I say, drawing back and taking another drag off my smoke.

He looks at it curiously, and I feel self-conscious. "What is this that you are smoking?"

"Uh... a cigarette? It's tobacco." Shit. I didn't think about having to explain _this_ to him.

He watches me take a drag off of it, then grabs it out of my hand and does so, himself. I am surprised that he knows how, knows what to do, and he hands it back, making a face. "It's foul," he says, blowing the smoke out. "There are other things that taste sweeter. Does this have some effect on your perceptions?" he asks, wary. I shake my head in negation. 

"It's not like it's opium or something," I say, taken aback.

He narrows his eyes and looks at me speculatively. "It does nothing like that?" I shake my head again. "Then, why have it?" He picks up the pack, turning it around in his hands.

I shrug. "I've been smoking for fifteen years. It... relieves stress. Keeps me from eating too much. Gives me something to do with my hands, and an excuse to leave a crowded room when I need one. Lots of reasons," I say, looking away.

"What is this, 'cancer'?" he asks, looking at the warning on the side.

I tense and look at my feet. "It... it's a... kind of... sickness," I admit.

He grabs my chin, makes me look him in the eye. "You never could look me in the eye when you felt guilty about something," he mutters darkly. Shit, I put so much of myself in my writing, he knows me too well for me to fool him. I stare at him as he searches my face, his eyes hardening. "This will cause you sickness?" He is not impressed. He is... getting irritated with me. I hang my head, pulling away.

"Uh... well, it _can_..."

He growls at me and grabs my shoulder, but I don't look up. "Speak the truth, _cara_. Is there poison in it?"

I bite my lip, but I can't lie to this man, not him. "It... Well... yes, basically," I admit. He snatches the cigarette from my hand before I can even react, and disappears into the house with it and the pack in his hands.

"Hey!" I hasten after him, but he strides straight over to the hearth and throws them in. "That... that was my last pack," I say, softly, despondently, watching them burn.

He folds his arms over his chest, his face set in hard lines. I cover my mouth with my hand. Oh my god, I pissed him off. I am shocked silent. "And glad I am to hear it. You will _not_ harm yourself while I am with you," he says, and his tone brooks no argument. My shoulders drop, and I nod.

"Right," I sigh. "I'll quit." I rub at my forehead. Cold turkey. Great.

He points to the chair next to the hearth that I had occupied last night. "Sit." I sit, and he begins to pace, agitated. "There are other ways of relieving stress, other reasons to leave a room, other things you can do with your hands. Tch. And to stop yourself from eating?" He stops and looks down at me, his face dark as the sky outside, and I feel myself going pale. "_Nulla!_ It is _nonsense,_" he says, his hand slashing through the air. I look at my hands, and he goes back outside. He is gone for a few minutes, just enough time for me to feel completely stupid and think about maybe having a cry. The door bangs shut behind him as he comes in again, and he presses my mug into my hands.

He crouches down by the hearth and begins to rummage in the pots and pans that stand there, covered; he hands me a bowl, at last, with eggs, roasted potatoes, and bacon. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to cook my own food without paying for it, and this touches my heart in an unexpected way. Now I feel like total shit for fucking things up this morning with my stupid cigarette habit. I try not to think about the fact that I'm so desperate to stay in his good graces. Silence reigns so long between us, I'm almost on the verge of tears anyway, when he finally speaks, as though nothing happened.

"You must show me this merchant who sells you your coffee."

I blink. "What? Why?"

"It is terrible," he says, making a face. "They have burned it. I hope you did not pay a great deal." I cough. Hilarious. He doesn't like French roast. He frowns at me. "What is funny?"

I shake my head. "I didn't know you don't like dark coffee."

He leans forward, opening the tin, and shows me the beans. "Look, they should not shed oil to your fingers," he says, rubbing one and showing me the pad of his thumb. "Shiny, but not oily. Oil means it has been poorly done." He replaces the lid and sits back, obviously certain of himself. I make a mental note to bring home some Italian roast. The idea that I'm automatically beginning to think of shopping lists in terms of his preferences terrifies me. I try not to think about what it means, that I am doing this.

"So noted," I murmur. "Tell me about this eventful morning of yours?" I ask, trying to bring him back to what he had said before all the unpleasantness over my bad habits.

He nods, but I see that look in his eye; we're not done with the cigarette conversation, not by a long shot. I know it's going to come up again, right around the time I have a nic-fit, right around the time that my hands start shaking and I turn into super-cranky psycho-bitch. I shiver. He lets it go, for now, though. "As I was searching our house, I discovered a trunk with a man's clothing in it," he begins, and I choke on my coffee. I cough and set the cup down, covering my mouth with my sleeve, then wiping my watering eyes. 'Our house', he said. Oh, gods.

"Sorry," I rasp, picking up my mug again. I motion for him to continue.

"You're all right? Yes? Good. As I was saying, the trunk. Very little inside fit me, but I did find this, which will serve, but is obviously not... Made for me. I realize, such things are an expense... but, I wondered if you knew of someone who can do something about that."

I nod. "Actually, I made everything in that trunk, so... I can make you anything you like." His eyebrows raise, and I blush under his clear respect for my skill. I wave a hand and hide behind my mug. "We can get to that later, though... For now, I'm just glad you've found something to wear. What else?"

He regards me seriously, watching my face carefully as he tells me of the things he's discovered. "There are many things which confuse me. There are cabinets in the kitchen which are very strange: one of them is very cold; another holds a plate, and nothing else, but it has numbers on the side of it, like a safe, yet, it does not lock. I find lamps, but no oil or wicks. There is a box, with a window on it, but it is opaque. Outside, there is a cart, but no way to attach it to horses, and the wheels..." He shakes his head. "There is much I do not understand, many things which serve no purpose that I can see. But there is one thing I found that makes perfect sense."

I arch an eyebrow. "What?"

"There," he says, pointing toward the beach, "I found a workshop, filled to bursting with driftwood and things collected from the beach, and the most beautiful creations made from them. Furniture, artwork, carvings, and on every single piece, a little lily, carved somewhere out of the way." He smiles at me, obviously proud of my work.

I blush and look down. He found my shed. I only have to sell one or two a month, depending on the size of them, in order to keep myself afloat, comfortably. If I cut the power completely and went to generator, it might be cheaper, but I don't like the idea of being responsible for the repairs when it goes out; the power company deals with outages, the way I'm set up now. It's hard enough just keeping my stupid truck going.

I don't know what to say. Uh... "I'm flattered that you approve." I turn my mug in my hands as there is a pause in the conversation. "Since the storm has mostly passed, I'll need to go out and scour the beach for more materials today."

He nods. "I will help you." I smile. It will be so much easier with another pair of hands... fewer trips, bigger pieces that can be hauled back. A sudden glimmer of what a life like this could be like, stretching on toward the horizon, beckons me to think ahead, to plan, and I shut it out, quickly slamming the door, trying not to hang my hopes on someone who, by all rights, should not exist. I have a sudden yearning for things I never spared a second thought, before: marriage, children, family, growing old with someone and sharing grandchildren. My heart aches with it, and I don't want to cry; I'm already a little fragile from our earlier altercation. So I do what I do best: run from it; I change the subject.

"There are many things that will be difficult to explain," I say, at last. "The first thing you should know, above all else, is that there is no magic here, of any kind. This makes our world much more perilous than the one you've left, because there is no such thing as healing. Everything has to be done the hard way. All we have are science and alchemy; however, with just these two tools at our disposal, we have made wonders such as your world has never known."

He looks at me over the rim of his mug, and I take a deep breath. Now I'm thinking about things like passports, birth certificates, social security numbers, fingerprints, driver's licensing; doctors, dentists, hospitals and everything else. Shit. One thing at a time. I take another breath.

"A lot of what you see can be explained by electricity. We've harnessed the power of lightning, bent it to our wills, and created things that use it in order to work. Sometimes, out here on the coast, when there is a bad storm, I lose my connection to it, and have to use candles, oil lamps, and the fire place, but this is not how I live, usually. Eventually, the power company will turn the lights back on, and then you will see. As for the rest... well, with electricity at our disposal, we have been able to bend just about everything else in the world to our will, as well. You will discover more and more of these things, as we go along. You must not openly express surprise, nor startle; I'm sure you can understand how it might be dangerous to do so, but it's even worse than you might imagine." I sigh.

"I have many books; we can begin your education today. There is much you need to know, and not a lot of time to teach it to you. Thedas is much like our history of five hundred years ago... with two exceptions: one, there has never been magic here, and two, there have never been elves, dwarves, dragons, or darkspawn, either. We are all humans, and the only monsters among us spring from us."

"No elves?" he asks, softly, surprised at this one thing, and nothing else, apparently.

I shake my head. "Most people who see your ears will assume you had them cut to be shaped that way." I sigh again, and set down my empty mug. "We may as well begin." I fetch my history books: world, and art; sitting down next to him, I show him, first, a map of the world. I explain about Italy, where he will need to claim he is from. I go over the major highlights of the last hundred years, things that define our paradigm. "In the absence of actual race differences, humans focus on things like skin colour and religion, instead. Seems we're wired for bigotry." It takes me about three hours to take him through a crash-course. It helps that there are so many analogues, that Thedas is built on the bones of our world, to begin with.

At last, he sits back, stunned. I rise and put the kettle on, all talked out. I'm going to have to go into town for ice; it could be another day or two before I get my power back, and I know the fridge is warming up. I look at him speculatively. We've got maybe five hours of usable daylight left, assuming the storm doesn't swamp us again. "Feel like a little adventure?"

He looks at me, wary, and I smile. "What sort of adventure?"

"I have to go to the market. Do you wish to come? If you do, I can get you some clothing that will have you fit in here better." I chew my lip. If I can sell the couch this month, I'll be fine until January. "I haven't got much time, love. We still have to check the beach."

He is quiet for a time, and I fix us some chai; I sit next to him and hand him back his mug. I'll need to stock up. I'll hit up Fred's, I decide; food, clothing, and pharmacy in one. Much as I would love to just leave it to fate, taking a morning-after pill seems like a good plan, at least until he's got a better handle on what this world is like. I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. Maybe I can get him on at the martial arts studio; if we can get him set up as a teacher there, he'll be raking it in. He puts his arm around me and I cuddle under his arm while I drink my tea, grateful for warmth against my sore vocal cords.

"All right. I will go with you; after all, the alternative is staying here without you, and I fear the idea of such a thing, when we have only just found each other," he says. I giggle.

"We can buy you some clothes, then. Will you bank the fire, while I get ready?" He nods. I set down my empty mug and rise, hurry to the bedroom, and change into one of my garb dresses. I pull on my Fryes and grab my own heavy cloak. If we match, I can claim it was laundry day when the power went out. I grab my keys and tuck my license and debit card into my bra.

Coming back into the living room, I take his hand and kiss him ardently. He folds me in his arms, returning it. I lace my fingers between his, looking up at him. "Okay. Keep your wits, my love. This will be a lot of new things all at once. Don't get skittish; there's nothing we'll be about today that I don't do all the time. No matter how strange things seem, you're safe with me." He laughs at this role-reversal, and I kiss him once more.


	3. Sweet Surrender

I lead Zev out to the truck and open the door for him, then get in on my side. He copies me as I slam my door and fasten my seatbelt. I stick the keys in the ignition, and look at him. "The truck is a machine that runs on oil and fire. It's going to be loud," I warn, and turn the keys. His eyes dart to the front, to the engine, and I reach over, run my hand along his leg.

"It runs on _fire_?" he asks, clearly nervous.

I nod. "We're safe, though. Remember: everything we're about to do, I do every day, all right? Now. This thing moves fast as a ship at sea in a good wind, and we're going backwards, first. Ready?"

At his nod, I pop the emergency brake and shift into reverse, pull us out onto the road, and, looking at him one last time, head into town. He is tense for the first couple of minutes, but when nothing happens, he begins to relax. The other cars have his fingers curling against the seat, as he is unused to judging speeds and distances at this rate. "It's a lot to take in all at once," I murmur, keeping my eyes on the traffic. "Try to think of it as everyone driving their own cart. The lines show us where we can drive, and the lights tell us when it's safe to go... see, mine just turned green, so I can turn, now. That's what keeps us all from smashing into each other. All these guys, their light is still red, so they have to wait." I'm glad I don't have to hit the freeway. That's an adventure for another day.

We finally pull into the lot at Fred Meyer, and I park. He lets out a breath I didn't know he was holding, and I take his hand again. "All right?" He looks at me, and, though his face is carefully placid, his eyes are wild. I smooth my thumb over the back of his hand. I show him how to unlatch the buckle, and scoot over to put my arms around him. He clings to me tightly, burying a hand and his face in my hair. "We're at the market, now," I murmur, curling closer. "Everything will be okay. This place is full of wares that you might recognize very little of. Try not to stare, and follow my lead. I'll answer all your questions when we get out of there, okay?"

He nods, and I open his door so we can get out of the truck. He sticks very close to my side, and I grab a cart. "Here, push this as we go along, and follow me. It'll give you something to do with your hands." He nods again, and I worry about how silent he's gone. I look up at him, putting my hand to his cheek, and kiss him, softly. "Deep breaths," I murmur. "I do this every day, remember?" He visibly forces his body to relax, and I stroke his arm before I turn and head into the store.

I pick up oranges and bananas; he is startled by their presence, and smiles as I put them in the cart. Coming back to his side, I murmur, "Individual vendors have been replaced by large markets like this one, where many wares are for sale under one roof, and then we pay for everything we gather before we leave." I can tell he's trying not to stare at everything. I take him into the bakery and get another loaf of bread. I pay for a box of biscotti at the bakery counter and hand him one. He bites into it and closes his eyes, obviously relishing it. "Something familiar, hm?"

He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into his side. I rest my head against his shoulder as we stand and eat our biscuits, taking a little break. "Thank you," he murmurs, and I smile.

"There are more things you'll recognize, as we go along; not everything is so different. It just looks that way." I lead us into the wine section; he is immediately full of opinions, and we finally settle on a nice muscat; I get two bottles. I pick up milk, cream, cheese, half a dozen eggs, and then I show him the coffee. I know he has a million questions, but he's holding himself together really well, considering how strange it all must be. He is focusing on the things that he _does_ understand, and for that, I am grateful.

It takes him a while, and I wander off to pick up some more chai in the meantime, but he finally chooses one that he likes, so I pull out a full two pounds of it. He watches me work the slider, missing nothing, and I smile at him. This should last us for a couple of weeks. Now it's time for clothes. I measure his waist with my hands – I learned a long time ago that my palm is exactly three and three-quarters inches across – and pull out a few pairs of jeans for him to try on.

"They're supposed to fit well, close to the skin, but not too tight," I say, pointing to the guy in the ad on the wall. He nods, and I get him set up in a dressing room. Never mind the zippers; button-flies will work best, and I like them better anyway. While he's working on that, I grab other things: socks, boxers, a few shirts, a hoodie. I may have given them to him, but I'm not really prepared for what the sight of Zev in jeans and a henley does to me, and I blush scarlet. "Those, uh. Yeah. We- We'll get those," I stutter, and he gives me a knowing smirk. He turns around, flexing his shoulders, and looks at me sideways. I have to cover my eyes, I am blushing so hard, and he laughs softly. I hear the dressing room door shut, and repress the urge to duck in there with him.

I am definitely _not_ quiet enough for that kind of... adventure. Yeah, we'll go with 'adventure'. "Throw the ones that fit over the door, so I can get some more," I say, and immediately get a face full of jeans, followed by the shirt. I check the sizes and fetch more. By the time I find him again, he is checking out this kind of awesome dark blue wool vest; the way it fits him has me blushing again.

He smirks. "Careful, _cara_, I might begin to suspect you harbour some desire for me." I open my mouth to say something smart, but nothing comes out, and he laughs. He steps in closer and pulls me against his chest, then smiles slyly when I gasp a little. He gives me a relatively chaste kiss, turning me loose, and I, disconcerted, straighten my dress and look around nervously. I'm not into public displays like that, but he makes me forget myself. I try to focus. What was I here for again? Ice. Right. Ice. That's at the front of the store.

I park him in one of the longer lines and give him a hug, so I can whisper in his ear. "Just copy the people in front of you. If they ask you why you're dressed this way, tell them it was laundry day when the power went out. I'll be right back." I dash off and haul back three bags. They've doubled the price, of course, but I have to get it anyway. He is staring at the chocolate, when I get back, so I grab a couple of Symphony bars. That'll be fun; I smile to myself. The older guy in front of us has apparently decided that Zev carries himself like his son, lost to Desert Storm, and is waxing poetic about 'the war', this one being Vietnam, I guess. Zev nods, sympathetic; I'm glad I took the time to go over recent history with him this afternoon.

I make polite conversation with Maria, the check-out girl, as we get our things over the scanner. We knew each other in high school, and she's always tried to act like she's my superior, even though I've always had the upper hand in just about every situation. I notice the way that her eyes stray across Zev, repeatedly, just the way she's done with every one of my exes. She's always taken great delight in using her ample curves to lure away just about any man I've ever been able to snag. So far, Zev will be the only man I've had who _hasn't_ slept with her. She thinks this marks her as the better woman.

He does not miss her wandering gaze, nor the tension between us. She blushes prettily and leans forward a bit to show her cleavage, and I look over just in time to catch him flashing her that dark, roguish grin; I bite my lip, knowing he did it just because he can. He casually puts his hand to the small of my back, but she seems oblivious to this clear signal.

I watch the total and wince, but... it's coming up on holiday rush, too. If I just list everything, I'll be sitting pretty through the spring, hopefully make it through tax season, and have time to build up my inventory again. Winter always brings the best driftwood, anyway. Zev easily picks up both of the bags in one hand. I see the way Maria looks at him as we head out of her line, and I pointedly lace my fingers through his as we walk away, casting her a dark look. She lifts her chin, and I resist the urge to flip her off. Moral high ground, and all that. I narrow my eyes, but then I have to face forward. Not only did she see Zev, she wanted him for herself, which means I'm not crazy – he's really here. I try not to think about the fact that I'm jealous as all hell.

I have Zev drop the bags in the bed and we head for home. He is less nervous on the way back, but just as tense, and is obviously glad to get out of the truck; he carries the bags inside, his shoulders tight. I put everything away, dropping the ice into my big turkey pan to keep it from leaking and making a big mess, before I stuff it in the fridge. He stalks around the house like a caged tiger, while I am working in the kitchen, and I don't know what to do, what to say, to make it better. His agitation worries me and sets me on edge. This world is a terrible shock, I know. Will he wish himself away, regret being here, decide I'm not worth the trouble?

Echoes of my dark past rise up and swallow me whole, completely unexpectedly, and I bow my head, bracing my arms on the edge of the sink. I keep my back to the rest of the house, not wanting him to pick up on my stupid mood. I perfected the art of silent crying a long time ago, because my ex would only get more angry when my tears confronted him with his callousness. I turn on the tap and wash my face in the cold water, trying to shock my eyes into stopping. One thing I really can't bear is for other people to see me crying. The only time that most of my family have seen it, since I was a little girl, was the day I had to go to Dad's funeral. Couldn't help it, then; it was probably the only place that I would ever feel like it was okay for people to see me cry, but I still tried to hide it anyway.

All I've ever had has been my own strength and determination, my own iron will and refusal to give in. I've always said to myself: _I can do this, I can get through this, just one breath at a time, just one step at a time. Everything is transitory, everything is temporary, all things pass. Breathe, survive, stand up and walk tall._ Now, it could be the lack of nicotine talking, but I'm thinking that there have just been too many shocks over the last twenty-four hours, and I'm reaching my limit.

He shows up, randomly and impossibly, I spend the night with him, he is angry with me this morning over cigarettes, I have to teach a crash-course in world history, then Maria confirms that I'm not crazy, which is both a blessing and a curse, and now he's rattling around the house, barely contained, and I don't know what to do with him. The last time I had a man so agitated in my presence, things got ugly, really quickly, and I ended up with a broken jaw. 'Our house', he said. I'm not afraid of him. I'm not. Just my stupid baggage, right? Right.

My hands are shaking as I turn off the tap. I dry my face on a kitchen towel and head straight out the back door, retreating to my shop. I've got to get ready, anyway, if I'm going to go out to check for driftwood, and I _do_ have to, no matter how I'm feeling. Maybe throwing myself into my work will help. I catch sight of myself in the mirror I made last month, though, and I know, if he sees my face, I'm not hiding a bloody thing. I sigh. I unroll the canvas tarp that I use to haul the wood, and dust of the last of the sand and crap that I ended up with last time I brought it in. I really, really could use a smoke right about now. I flex my hands and try to focus.

"Lily, I-" Zev is suddenly standing very near, and I jump half out of my skin, skittering to the side. With my mind gone to such dark places, my old instincts kick in, and I am immediately defensive, standing sideways with my hands up to protect my face, ready to take a blow, even though I'm not afraid of such things from him. He is shocked. "You fear me?" he asks, his voice an agonized whisper.

"No!" I choke, my heart hammering with the adrenaline rush, and throw myself into his arms. One of his hands tangles in my hair, and I bury my face in his neck. "Just... Just echoes of an unpleasant past," I murmur, shaking my head. "You startled me, and when I'm upset..." His arms tighten around me, and I take a deep breath, comforted by his scent. "Zev," I whisper, so overwhelmed, my voice deserts me entirely. He looks down at me, and his face goes even more serious when he sees the expression on mine. I have no idea what I might look like right now. "I'm a storm of emotion, most of the time, changeable as the sea; I ebb and flow, I'm coming and going, I'm placid and tempestuous, I could bear you up, but I could drown you. Yet, I am also as constant, and predictable." I look up into his amber eyes, feeling totally naked. "My past is full of terror and pain, death and destruction. I am not very... whole."

He laughs, relaxing. "_Cara mia_, you forget who you are talking to. I am patient, yes? Your past is no worse than mine. We will fight these ghosts of ours together." He tilts my chin up and kisses me softly, and I'm not sure why, exactly, I thought that this way of me would somehow chase him off, like it did so many others. I melt against him, filled to the brim with joy so acute it is close to anguish. He pulls back, at last, and smooths the hair from my cheek with his thumb. "Stop beating yourself over things that cannot be changed, hmm? You are letting him win when he can still have his way with your emotions after he is gone." I blink, startled, and he laughs softly, stroking his fingers down the side of my face. "I was listening to you; all the things you say, and all that you do not, add up to a man who used to put his hands on you, yes?"

I can't believe how perceptive he is. I'll never be able to keep anything from him; my face is an open book. This is a very good thing, actually... I won't be able to shut him out when my issues overwhelm me to the point that I am collapsing in on myself. I feel a rush of desire that takes me completely by surprise, and he sees it, too. Totally the wrong timing, considering what we were just talking about, but what can I say, I'm a basket-case. The idea that I can trust him completely is a _powerful_ emotion for a girl with a past like mine. I blush, and his soft laugh is a much darker thing.

He runs his thumb over my lower lip and murmurs, "I see what you mean, _dolcezza_: constant and changeable as the sea."

I drop my gaze, suddenly shy. "I can't seem to get rid of him; not for good. He doesn't respect my 'no', always interfering with my life," I confess. If he's going to be around, he better know about that... even though I really hate dumping my problems on other people. Much better to stand on your own two feet, right? I shake my head, clinging to him for a moment more. Pulling away reluctantly, I say, "I guess we better get to work." I grab the canvas and a couple pairs of work gloves, but I cast him a look over my shoulder, and he comes to my side, twining his fingers with mine.

We pull in a pretty good haul; I'm able to bring in this fantastic piece that would have been way too heavy for me, on my own; I think I can actually make a sideboard out of it, all one solid piece. It'll be marvellous. I can already see where I'll need to cut out the drawers and set a piece of marble or granite for the top. I'll hardly have to shape it at all, it's so perfect. I smile happily as we set it in the corner of the shop. I recovered my balance while we were out, and we entertained ourselves with all the questions he had about the trip to the store. Now, looking up at him, as the rain begins to pelt down again outside, I see him with new eyes. He is dusting his hands off, clapping the sand from the work gloves I gave him, and shaking it off of his pants. He's solid. He's real. Maria flirted with him, and we moved this big, heavy piece of wood in here, together.

Together.

I throw my own gloves down on the table and go to him. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I kiss him passionately, tangling my fingers in his hair, and he growls his interest, kissing me back. I'm thinking my work table is exactly the right height, and there's no one about to hear us, out here. I press myself against him tightly, trying to speak with my body, and I can feel him responding. After a moment, though, he pulls back, and laces his fingers between mine, tugging me toward the house. "Come, let us eat, first. It has been a long day."

I sigh heavily, and nod. "It has," I agree, following him.

I've got a lot of vegetables that need eating, so I decide to make us a spaghetti sauce with zucchini, half a leek, red bell pepper, mushrooms, and the last of my fresh tomatoes, along with a can of stewed. He becomes intently interested as soon as I pull out the veggies, and I smile. I bring out my herbs and spices: thyme, oregano, rosemary, garlic, marjoram, cinnamon, basil. He is delighted, and takes over for me almost immediately. I open the can of tomatoes and dump them in the pot as he dices the vegetables and throws them in a pan to sauté. I put water on to boil, and we make dinner together. He is pleased that I have olive oil; I use too much thyme, apparently. Somehow, cooking has gone from a chore to an adventure; it's the best meal I've ever eaten.

After dinner, I curl up next to him on the couch and rest my head on his shoulder, and he draws me into his arms. I am so content; I feel actually _safe_ for the first time in so many years, I've lost count. I never want this feeling to end. "Could this be the way of our lives?" I whisper, "Can we be like this, every day?"

His hand strokes through my hair, and I close my eyes. "No, _cara_, we had words today. Other days should be better." I giggle and put my legs over his lap, looking up just in time for his lips to close over mine. His hand strokes along my thigh as his other arm pulls me more tightly against him, and I whimper; I've been hungering for him since I woke, and after such an emotional roller-coaster of a day, all that tamped-down desire suddenly roars over me, consuming me, and I can't get close enough fast enough. I moan into his mouth, pulling myself up and straddling him, pressing against him wantonly. He breaks away, chuckling darkly, and kisses my neck, his hands sliding up under my dress to caress my hips.

I reach down between us and tug on the tie to his pants, releasing the knot so I can pull them down and get my hands on him. He growls as I wrap my fingers around him, finding him already more than a little interested, and this only serves to fan the fire. "Mmh, so eager, Lily _mia_" he murmurs, and bites my neck. I writhe and whimper again, trying to figure out how I can get my panties off without having to pull away from him. He solves the problem for me by pushing them to the side as I pull him toward me, needing him _now_. He arches under me, and I gasp as he is suddenly filling me, my eyes rolling up. I don't know why, I don't know how, but something about the way he moves is so much better than anyone else I've ever been with.

I brace myself against his shoulders, and I can feel his stomach muscles rippling against my thighs. "Look at me, _dolcezza_," he murmurs, his voice dark with desire. I tip my head down, pressing my forehead to his, and force my eyes open. I can't help it, I have to fight to keep from closing my eyes every time he sways upward. Being locked in his gaze like this, though, is so unbelievably intense, I am losing my breath. Apparently confident that I'll keep to the roll he's set my hips to, he brings his hands upward to cup my face and kisses me heatedly. I can't though; I falter and lose my rhythm. He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against him more tightly; I feel him flex under me, and my gravity changes. I have just enough time to wrap my legs around him before he flips me onto my back.

Seeing him rising above me, buried as he is, after all that has passed today, it does something permanent to my heart, and I completely lose myself in him. I pull him down, kissing him with ardent abandon. I buck and writhe for him, moaning and arching desperately, and he purrs Italian in my ear, a heated rush that grows more and more strained, at the same rate that I am becoming more and more breathless. I feel myself slipping over the edge, and I try to tell him, but I only get so far as his name, sighing between my lips-

"Zev-"

"Lily-"

He groans softly in my ear as I lose control of my voice completely, my full-throated moan turning into a couple of shrieks as my orgasm sweeps over me so strongly that I almost lose consciousness with it. I cry out again as I feel him pulse thickly within me; he buries his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I cannot catch my breath. Tears flood out of my eyes as I admit to myself how much I love him, how grateful I am that he is here. I cling to him, gasping for air, but he doesn't stop; he slides a hand under my hips, holding me to him, continuing to roll against me, steady as the tide.

I begin to sob helplessly, my fingers digging into his back. His breath grows ragged in my ear, and my legs turn to jelly as I try to cling, to meet him. Sweat stands out on my brow, drips down from his temple to mingle with the tears pouring down the side of my face. "Zev- Zev-" I gasp, something heavy and hot coiling in my stomach. He growls, and I feel my thighs begin to tremble, my stomach flexing as that glow grows steadily hotter, heavier, a burning that washes over me in wave after shuddering wave, and yet continues to grow. I sob again. "I can't- I can't-"

He doesn't relent, and no matter how I writhe, weak as I am, I cannot escape the growing heat, the heavy pulse, the way he is thickening inside me again. "_S__ì__, cara_, you can, you will... _solo per me_, hm?" he growls in my ear, his breath shuddering with the effort, and my eyes flutter as I try to open them, to look at him, anything. I begin to feel wild, desperate, the heat rising and rising, and suddenly it bursts, rippling outward; I am screaming again, but it is a short, sharp thing, for I haven't the breath for anything more.

He suddenly rises up to his arms again and increases his pace; I gasp, struck silent by lack of breath, and stare up at him, at the way his eyes grow more wild by the moment. I reach up with shaking hand and cup his cheek, trace the lines of his tattoo with my fingertips. He turns his face and presses his lips to my palm, his eyes closing and his brows drawing down as he trembles, his rhythm breaking, and I feel that pulse again. My fingers whisper across his face as my own eyes flutter closed at this last, gentle, most intimate of touches. He hangs his head, his shoulders heaving in the firelight as I rouse myself, trying to maintain consciousness. I pull him down into my arms, nuzzling against his neck, and his hair falls across my face. "My Zev," I whisper in his ear, clinging to him tightly.

He slides his arms under me again, cradling me in his embrace, and kisses me softly, his lips travelling up my jaw and to my ear. He whispers, "Lily _mia_," as he draws back, reluctantly, and pulls my skirt down. My leg falls off the couch, and I haven't the strength to do much more than get my foot flat on the floor.

He sways drunkenly on his way to the kitchen, and I smile. It must have been something to him, too, to affect _him_ that way. I hear the tap turn on and off, and he returns with a glass of water and a hand-towel. I close my eyes. Guess who was so distracted, she forgot to actually visit the pharmacy? If I don't end up pregnant from this, it'll be a miracle. Silently, I promise the gods that if they just get me through this month, I'll go in and get birth control pills. I accept the towel and struggle to sit up. He sets the glass on the table, gets his arms under me and pulls me to my feet. My knees buckle, and I collapse against him. We both stagger, and I laugh.

"We should go to bed," I say, still breathless.

He nods. "This is a good plan," he agrees. We wobble toward the back of the house, making a pit-stop in the bathroom to clean up. Cold water: not so funny after something so hot, but necessary. I fling my panties into the laundry basket, and, after a moment's deliberation, doff the dress, as well, and leave my bra on the counter. Who cares, after all that? I'm his. What's the point in trying to hide? I can't, not anything, not from him, and I don't want to. He's not like those who came before, not at all. Always, always there was a glimmer of doubt, a hint of insecurity, a wonder about their commitment. Not so, now. He follows suit, his garb landing in the hamper with mine.

We climb into bed together, and he pulls me into him, burying his face in my hair and wrapping his arms around me. "Lily, _bella regina mia_, you are trying to have my children," he accuses in a conversational tone. He pulls my leg up over his hip as he settles himself against me, arranging me to suit himself, and, curiously, I am so much more comfortable once he's finished.

"I... not on purpose, I just... you make it hard to think," I say, lamely, and he laughs in whisper.

He pulls back from me enough to look into my eyes, tilting my chin up. There is humour in his eyes, but he is very serious when he asks me, "Is this what you would wish for yourself?"

"Children?"

"A lifetime, with me."

I stare at him, floored. Technically, we've only known each other two days, but there is so much going on here, so much more behind this. I am struck speechless, the answer clawing at my throat, but getting stuck behind the shock of having someone ask me that question for the first time in my life. I can't speak, so I do the next best thing, and kiss him, clinging to him tightly. Drawing back, I find that his tongue has unstopped my mouth, and I say the only thing I can: the truth. "Yes," I whisper, terrified, elated.

"Then... there is something you must know," he says, pulling back. A coldness enters the pit of my stomach, a frightened dread, and he smiles knowingly. "Such eyes you give me," he chastises. He twists, reaching back behind him, and digs around in the bedside table drawer. Pulling out a tiny pouch, he turns back to me, and rearranges us until we're settled the way we were before he moved. Only then does he reveal the contents of the pouch. "You did not have it, because I took it back," he murmurs. "You did not lose it." I feel his fingers at my ear, and I know he will find no hole there. I smile.

"You'll have to pierce it again."

"Tch. I haven't my kit any more," he says, irritated with the loss of his pack.

I shake my head. "I've got something. Wait." I scramble out of bed and dash into my sewing room; certain needles for the machine are curved, almost hollow, and the blades are quite sharp. I grab a little packet of them, and the alcohol from the bathroom, and return to his side. Pulling a box of matches from the bedside drawer, I light the candle on my night-stand. I pour a little alcohol onto a cotton ball and wipe my ear with it, then hold out a needle. He sits up, regarding me solemnly, and my breath catches. He takes my free hand in his, and puts an earring into it. I look down, examining this object that, like him, should not exist.

He takes the needle from my fingers, and I lay down on the bed, resting my head on his thigh. I have no tattoos, no piercings. All this time, I just... never did it. I had this ill-fated adventure when I was 16 involving a piercing gun and a pair of plain surgical steel studs, but that lasted only a couple of months. They've been healed over for almost fifteen years now. I don't even have a scar. Slowly, gently, he strokes my neck, moving my hair away from my ear, and I see him holding the needle above the candle flame. He wipes it on the cotton ball; it's as sterile as a home-pierced ear is going to get. He is about to make a permanent mark on me. I close my eyes, my fingers curling against his thigh, and tilt my head a little, toward the light.

"I will never get used to your round ears," he murmurs, leaning over me, and I smile. The needle bites into me a moment later, and I gasp softly. He gives it a twist, letting the blades carve out their little piece of flesh. He grabs several tissues from the box on the night-stand and uses them to soak up the blood that wells from the little wound. I open my eyes to see him leaning over me, looking intently at my ear, and I realize he's waiting for the bleeding to slow. Eventually, he leans back, looking satisfied with his work, and I hold up the earring. The needle withdraws, and he hooks it in, easy as that, latching it closed in back and pinching it to close the loop, so it cannot fall out.

I look up at him, and the look on his face takes my breath away. I lean up and kiss him, my ear throbbing hotly. For once, the pain I bear in the name of love is worth it.


	4. Breaking the Girl

The morning of the second day, I wake in his arms, and the feeling is so intoxicating, I hum with pleasure, immediately wriggling closer. He laughs softly, running his fingers through my sleep-tangled hair and dislodging the knots. "Mmh, I wonder how many mornings I will wake to be shocked by your presence," I murmur. A moment later, I groan and put my hand to my forehead, as the throbbing in my ear immediately expands to encompass my whole head. Fantastic: and so the withdrawal begins.

He is concerned. "What is wrong with your head?" he asks, his fingers automatically going to massage-mode. I sigh happily – hair-play and head-massage are my favourite, and I'm such a sucker for it that I will often lose my train of thought completely when surprised by it.

"Mmmm... Huh? Oh, uh... cigarettes," I mumble. "You made me quit. Now my head hurts."

He sighs. "You only prove my point, _cara_. Addiction is a bad thing; you know this." I nod. "Will you also tremble? Be sick? Hallucinate?"

I begin to protest, no, of course not, but then I pause. "Actually... not much, but my hands shake sometimes, and I will cough a lot. I might get... cranky. No hallucinations or anything; it's not too bad."

"Good. Then let us be about the day, yes? I wish to discover what has been making the watery noise in your outside room. Also, what is the meaning of the number, here?" He points to the alarm clock, and I see that it is flashing 12:00.

"The power is back on!" I say, elated. "Hot showers!"

I pause, thinking about the possibilities of Zev plus hot running water, and make myself blush. He arches an eyebrow and I giggle. If the washer is back on, that means there should be hot water by now. I really, really want to wash my hair. Cleaning up with cold water works, but it's hardly satisfying. I move to crawl over him, but he grabs me by the hips and pulls me down against him.

"Insatiable!" I gasp

He leers at me, and my heart skips. "But of course," he murmurs, and goes for my neck, but I wriggle free, and he lets me. I bolt for the bathroom, his laughter chasing me all the way. Regaining my wits as I turn on the shower, I start to question my reality again. No, I have to forcibly remind myself, Maria was all over him yesterday. Completely disgusting, yes, but also proof positive. She never misses an opportunity to try and take something from me.

It occurs to me to wonder what, in this small town, is going to happen now that I was seen with another man. It won't take very long for word to get around; shit, I didn't think about that. I hate small-town living! I curse under my breath, and climb under the hot water, then groan happily. When I open my eyes, I see Zev looking in at me from the other end of the bathtub, and hold my hands out to him, the water cascading over my head and plastering my waist-length hair to my back. He steps forward, taking my hands, and I pull him into me; he gasps as the hot water hits his chest, and then hums with happiness.

"That's what I said," I comment, and he smiles. I step back, out of the spray, and grab the shampoo, scrubbing while he stretches languorously and turns under the water. Once his hair is wet, I push him forward to rinse the soap out of my hair, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. I jump and gasp as I feel his mouth on my breast. "Mh! Zev!" I protest, laughing, and try to pull away, but then he presses me back against the wall, and the cold tile wrests a shriek from me. My eyes fly wide and I look down at him, shivering. He looks up at me, pausing. "Cold wall!" I gasp.

"Ah, tch, that will never do," he says, pulling me back under the water. I reach up and tug his braids free, untie them. He watches me, face serious, and I meet his eyes. I grab the shampoo again.

"Now you'll smell like rosemary, too," I murmur, squeezing some of it into my hand. He tips his head back, closing his eyes, and I bite my lip. It occurs to me that this might be a more intimate thing for him than the actual sex, because it's someone else taking care of him. I take my time, massaging his head, watching the expressions playing across his face with rapt attention. He keeps his arms tight around my waist, so I step around his side, turning him into the spray to rinse it out. He looks different with his hair back like this, and I wonder how he'll look when it's dry, and down around his face.

The water starts to cool, and I sigh, pressing a kiss to his throat before he tips his head down again. "Fun part's over, love. We're about to lose the warm. Got to wash up and get out, before it goes frigid on us." I hand him the bar of soap and nudge the cold down a little. We are quick, but the water is still almost cold by the time we're done and I shut it off. I shiver. "Well, there is usually more hot water than that; the power must not have been on for more than an hour. Not enough time to build up a good supply."

"Where does it come from?"

"There's a tank here, behind this wall, in the corner of my closet," I say, knocking on the wall. "It's got an electric fire under it that heats the water up, and then it comes through here into the pipes, which open and release it when we turn the knobs."

I toss him a towel, and we dry off quickly. I wrap my hair up before I race for the bedroom, beginning to freeze my ass off again, and quickly throw on jeans and a sweater. I hate trying to struggle into a bra when my skin is still somewhat damp, but there's no way I'm running around with DD's not strapped in. That way lies injury. As my sweater clears my head, I find Zev standing _right next to me_, and I jump back with a shriek, my instincts insisting that I'm about to be hurt. He puts his hands up, showing them to be empty. I press a hand to my hammering heart, then reach out and smack his arm with the towel that has fallen from my hair. "Make some noise!" I gasp, my hands shaking. I drop the towel as he steps forward and slowly folds me in his arms. I flinch; I can't help it, my adrenaline rush making me jumpy.

"Shh... _mi dispiace, dolcezza_, I am so sorry," he murmurs. "I forget myself."

I shake my head, curling against his chest, taking comfort in the strength and scent of him. I take deep breaths and push down the panic. I'm safe, here. He rubs my back, and I let him ease the tension out of my shoulders, sighing with relief. "It's okay, it's not your fault. I just... I'm not used to your presence, yet. I won't always be so easily startled."

He nods. "All right. Let us eat, and discuss our day, hm?" I smile. 'Our'. Heh. I stand behind him as he crouches by the hearth to build up the fire so he can make coffee, and braid his hair for him. We could use the coffee maker, sure, but I want to see what he does with it, because his tastes better than mine, even when we're using the same beans. I might never make my own coffee again. This man is spoiling me for life without him, I swear. Every passing day is greater danger to my heart. I worry that it's already too late, and I would be broken if he suddenly disappears. I try not to think about how easily snared I've been.

We settle down by the fire with our coffee and some hastily concocted fruit salad: oranges, bananas, apples, the last of my yoghurt, some strawberry jam, and few handfuls of almond granola. He is startled by the flavours, but seems to like it, since the entire bowl disappears rather rapidly. I'm glad he does; it's my favourite. I crush down my desire for a smoke and try to focus. The caffeine is helping take down the headache a few notches. Maybe I'll pop some Tylenol or something.

"I have to put all my pieces up to sell today, and then maybe try and get to work on something new," I say, taking up the thread of the conversation as though we'd never left off.

He nods. "Where will you take them?"

I smile. "That's the lovely thing; I don't have to take them anywhere." I pull out my camera from behind the computer and hold it up. "I'll just take pictures. I can transfer them into here," I say, pointing to my computer box, "Where I can then send them all over the world. People who are interested in buying them will send me messages, and then, eventually, I'll be able to ship them off to the buyers. The only real difference between what I do and how things used to be done is that, instead of the buyers having to send someone or come to me in person, I can send a representation of the object to them, and many people can vie for the same item. This way, I get more money, as they each try to outdo the others." I stand up and carry my bowl into the kitchen, wash it out, and stack it in the drainer.

I hear him behind me, this time, and I know he's deliberately made his tread heavier so as not to startle me again. I look up and find him standing just out of arm's reach. I take his bowl, too, and stash the rest of the fruit in the fridge. I wipe my hands off on my jeans and am about to head for the door, but he's just standing there, and it's like a magnetic force. He's being so sweet, so careful of me. I go to him and hug him again, and he kisses me passionately, his hands sliding down my back and over my bottom. I remember how he's tried to tag me twice this morning, and realize that today is going to be a little... frustrating. I pull back reluctantly, looking up at him. "You're incorrigible," I whisper. "I've got work to do. Come help me carry stuff outside."

I have a little stand set up outside the shed, an old work table and a couple of struts, facing out toward the ocean, that serves as my backdrop for all the photos of my work. My stretch of beach has become so recognizable that it's almost my signature, now. It goes so quickly, with two of us to move the furniture and everything. I am constantly amazed at how strong he actually is. He picks up an entire table like it is nothing and carts it out. It would have taken me half an hour of pushing, manoeuvring, and sliding, just to get it out there and in position. No way would I ever have been able to just pick it up like that. I just stand there, shocked, open-mouthed, watching him go by.

He sets it down and turns around. "There?" Then he sees my face, and arches an eyebrow. "What?"

"You-" I shake my head. "Your strength is impressive," I finally manage.

He laughs. "And to think, I am nothing compared to the brute force of Alistair or Sten." I am stunned for a moment. The idea of _them_ washing up on my beach, either one of them, terrifies the crap out of me, and I take a moment to pray to whoever sent me Zev that they don't send me Alistair, too. Alistair is not someone I would want to cross, and if it's the man himself from my writing? Gods help me, I tell you what: he's an intimidating force of nature, that one. Caught between him and my Zev? That's the _last_ thing I need. A chill runs up my back. "Oh? And what is that look?" he asks, coming back to my side.

"Just... Just taking a moment to be grateful that it's _you_ here, and not one of them," I assure him, putting my arm around his waist; he drops his around my shoulders and leans in to kiss my temple. I adjust the camera angle on the tripod and take a picture of the table. "Let's leave this here and hang the mirror over it," I suggest. Sometimes, showing two pieces together, but listing them separately creates a bigger bidding war. Positioning us so that nothing shows in the mirror is a little harder. I don't want to be in the shot, and I don't want my house to be visible, either. I'm thinking that if I stick something behind it to prop it up just enough that it points a little bit upward, it'll reflect the roof and the sky instead, and then I don't have to worry about it.

I am standing there fiddling with it, and it is showing me and the road behind me, when I see a familiar green car pulling into my driveway, and stop, cold. I see Zev in the mirror, see how I've gone pale, and the terror-stricken look on my face, as well. Damn, I'm not very good at hiding my emotions, apparently. He looks back at me, arching an eyebrow. "It's _him_." My nerves are too frayed. I can't take any more, not today. Too much in two days, too much. I feel myself beginning to shake, and his lips thin to a hard line, following my gaze. He holds out his hand and I go to him; he wraps his fingers around mine and pulls me to his side. The warmth of his hand around mine steadies me a little. I immediately begin going over an inventory of what I've got on me that can be used as a weapon, and come up with: boots. That's it.

Then I remember who I'm with, and his presence lends me strength. "_Sei al sicuro, dolcezza; niente panico,_" he murmurs distractedly, forgetting that I don't speak Italian. I get it, though. Don't panic. Right. I take a deep breath.

The man himself crawls out of his car and invites himself onto my porch. He's got flowers and take-out, and he's wearing that devil-may-care grin that used to make my heart flutter, but now only makes me feel queasy. His eyes go a little reptilian as he takes in the fact that I'm holding hands with another man, and I can see him automatically dismiss Zev as 'not a threat' because Zev is shorter and slighter than him, and, most probably, because his hair isn't short.

"Lily, baby, I came home yesterday, and you weren't here. How are your little art projects going?" he oozes false charm like an oil slick. I swallow. My work always was 'frivolous' to him; never mind that I've got buyers in three countries overseas and my last commission sold for close to two grand; it's something that took my time and attention away from _him_, so it's not important. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Tommy," I reply, warily. "What are you doing at my house?"

He puts his hand over his heart, theatrically. "_Your_ house, you wound me. Maria called me; she said she saw you buying ice yesterday. I knew that meant the power had gone, so I came by with some take-out," he says, as though this is something he does all the time. That loud-mouthed little magpie! As though I didn't have to take out a restraining order on him last year. It expired after six months, unfortunately, because we weren't married, and he went to all his little meetings and passed all his drug tests. He sets the flowers and the take-out down on the table and strolls toward me, across the boards of my front porch, to loom over us, one of his favourite tricks: keeping the high ground so he can look down at me.

Gently, Zev disengages his fingers from mine, and I see him shrugging, setting his shoulders. "Yes, _my_ house. You- You're not welcome here. Go away." I am not proud of the way my voice shakes. Dammit! I'm _so_ less than convincing. I square my shoulders and lift my chin, looking him in the eye. "Leave."

He comes down the steps toward me, and I back up a step. "Oh, come on, Lily, you don't mean that," he purrs, trying to use that old voice trick on me, the one that used to make me shiver. It doesn't work any more, and I just feel kind of sick. "It's been so long, honey. I've been good, haven't I? I stayed away, let you have your space, because you asked it of me. I've been very generous, but it's time for me to come home. Everything will be perfect again. I've been going to counselling, just like you wanted, and I'm a new man, Lily, you won't even recognize me. I've changed, for you, because I love you, baby."

Zev, knowing what is going on here, steps between us, his hand on my hip pushing me smoothly behind him. Tommy is a full head-and-shoulders taller than him, and he looks down at Zev with the flicker of a contemptuous sneer crossing his face. Fucking liar. He hasn't changed, at all. "I do not see how you could misunderstand, when she told you most clearly to leave," Zev says, his voice gone low and smooth as silk. "I suggest you do so, before things get... unpleasant." I almost laugh at the way he echoes the word I used to describe my relationship with Tommy, but I'm a little too freaked out.

"Zev... Don't kill him. That's too complicated," I whisper.

Tommy looks at me, and I take another step backward. He smirks again and tries to side-step Zev, but finds that he can't. He frowns and looks down, sizing up my assassin. I cover my mouth with my sleeve and back up a few more paces, giving Zev room to move without running me over.

"What is this bullshit, Lily? Are you _cheating_ on me? After all we've been through?" He stabs a finger through the air, pointing at me. "Who was there for you when your dad died? Huh? Who worked _two fucking jobs_ to keep you from losing the house? Who got you set up with the merchants and hauled all your wood those first two years? Who did you come running to that night when you escaped those guys who grabbed you behind the bar? Who kicked the ass of the guy who fed you rufies at that party? Who built your fucking shed? You're just going to throw all that back in my face?"

Zev glances back at me, just to check where I'm at, and Tommy completely misreads the situation, as per usual. "Oh, yeah, didn't tell him about me, huh? All our history? I've given you eight years of my life, Lily. Eight _years_. And I come home, when we just take a few months' time off, and here you are with someone else. Trying to replace me isn't going to be that easy."

I narrow my eyes. A garden gnome would have been a step up from Tommy. "Actually, I'm a lot happier without you. Everything you did for me came with such a high price, it became meaningless. I thought maybe you would have gotten the hint, by now."

"Is this about when I lost my job? Come on, that was just a little misunderstanding, baby, I never meant to hurt you. I said I was sorry; how many times do I have to apologise for that? You were picking at me, after I'd had such a bad day. I just lost it," he says, spreading his arms wide. "It could never happen again. You know I love you, more than my own life, Lily. I'll protect you, I'll take care of you. I'd never hurt you. Come inside and sit down, I'll give you some Chinese, and we'll forget the whole thing. I'll even forgive you your little fling, here; I can understand how you would be confused, but now I'm home, and it's time to send him back to his own place." He folds his arms over his chest, and part of me wants to do what he says, before things get worse, before he does something to me, before he stops being reasonable.

But the other, larger part of me, the part that has lain in Zev's arms for the past two nights, she is screaming bloody murder. 'Protect' me? I shout at him. "Oh, _right!_ 'A little misunderstanding' that sent me to the hospital with a broken jaw, a concussion, and two broken ribs. 'A little misunderstanding' over the fact that you lost your job because of your _pot habit_, and I wanted to know what I was going to do without medical insurance, since _I was pregnant_. But you took care of that rather handily with the beating you threw me next, _didn't you_," I spit.

I see Zev go that special kind of still, the kind I've only seen on military men, and I realize... I didn't exactly tell him the truth that first night, when we'd talked about the possibility of children. I sort of glossed over it. I mean, it's true, he did become very angry, and he did leave, but... that wasn't all. I swallow, hard, wondering if I'll have to face Zev's wrath later.

Tommy's face darkens with rage and he comes toward me; I back up several paces, out of instinct, but he doesn't make it two steps. There is a blur of motion, a flurry of activity, a couple of surprised grunts from Tommy, and suddenly he is on the ground, face down in the sand, Zev kneeling on his back, doing something with his legs that's got Tommy's arms pinned, casually holding the point of a dagger to the corner of Tommy's eye. It all happened so quickly, I couldn't really tell you exactly what Zev did.

His voice is very off-hand and careless, almost pleasant. "Tommy, is it? Ah, _so_ good to meet the reason my Lily wakes in the night, screaming." Oh, gods, really? I never remember it. I cover my eyes with my hands, but I can hear Zev still talking. "_You_ are the reason she jumps, when I appear too quickly next to her. _You_ are the reason she shies from my touch when she is upset, no matter how she wishes comfort."

"You can't fucking threaten me on my own property, you little faggot!" he spits, and I shake my head.

Zev just laughs. "Tch. Such brave words from the man who is currently on the ground at knife-point. This is not _your_ home, it is _mine_. If I find you near it, or her, ever again, the results will be most permanent." He sinks the dagger into the sand, right next to Tommy's cheek, fast as a striking snake, and Tommy squeals like a girl. I barely catch what Zev says next, leaning down to murmur in Tommy's ear; it's so quiet, it's nearly snatched away by the wind.

"I _protect_ that which is mine. She knows she has nothing to fear from _me_; if you had thought to keep her, you would have done the same." Zev pulls the dagger from the sand and rises smoothly, letting Tommy get up. Tommy, idiot that he is, immediately takes a swing, which Zev dodges easily. He sighs, easily sidestepping a few more clumsily-aimed blows. "Are you sure I cannot use my knives, _cara_?" he asks conversationally, circling.

"You realize he's asking me if he can kill you?" I spit at Tommy, and this stops him for a moment. "You think I don't want to tell him yes? Can't you tell he's not just some self-taught novice?" For the first time in his life, Tommy looks uncertain about something, and this gives me a piece of schadenfreude. Zev spins his dagger in his hand, toying with it restlessly, carelessly, looking Tommy over, probably trying to determine where he wants to sink it.

"He... he's military, Tommy. Special training," I say, trying to defuse the idiot before he gets himself killed. I don't care if he wants to commit suicide on Zev's blade; I'm more worried about the consequences for Zev and me, and the fact that I'd have to wash the blood off the ground so it doesn't attract bears. He goes a little pale, and looks back at Zev, suddenly – finally! – cautious. Zev just smiles at him, all teeth.

"You wish to dance, perhaps?" Zev offers, producing another knife from nowhere. Tommy blinks. "Come, I will even let you land the first blow, so you do not feel like a child when I put you on the ground again."

Tommy scowls, getting defensive now that he knows he's lost, and points at me. "You can't chase me out of my own home. This isn't over, Lily."

Zev shakes his head, putting himself between Tommy and me again. "I rather think it is."

"We're not fucking _married_, Tommy! You don't own _shit_!"

Tommy stomps over to his car and peels out of my driveway, scattering gravel everywhere. The knives disappear as quickly as they came, and I can't see where Zev might be keeping them. I run to him and throw my arms around his neck, and he folds me in his arms, holding me tightly. "Shhh... it is over, _dolcezza mia_, he will never return, and if he does? Well, I will be waiting for him, yes? He will never touch you; this I swear." I nod, trying to regain my balance, and he runs his fingers through my hair as I begin to relax. I take a few, deep, shuddering breaths.

"Help me finish here; putting myself to work will steady me more than anything else," I assure him, and he turns me loose, reluctantly.


	5. Transmutation

I really need a cigarette. My hands shake as I try to adjust the camera again, and I can't focus. I _have to_ focus. I can't let Tommy interrupt my day, my work, he doesn't have the right. I grit my teeth and try to force my fingers to cooperate. Zev wraps his hands over mine, and I realize I'm crying. When did that happen? "_Cara_, no. You cannot work like this. Come back inside."

"I- I can't, I have to put it away-" I hate how panicky I sound, and close my eyes for a moment, trying to settle myself. I take a few more deep breaths. What is _wrong_ with me? Nothing _happened_; Tommy never even _touched_ me.

Zev nods decisively and leaves my side to stride over to the table. He takes the mirror down, lays it across the table top, and tilts it toward him to brace the mirror against his stomach. He quickly carries them inside the shop, then comes back to me. "Now. Come," he says, putting his arm around my shoulders, gently taking the camera from me. I let him steer me into the house.

He deposits the camera by the computer, and I tuck my hands into my armpits. Fucking Tommy! He does this to me every time! If Zev hadn't been here, he'd be in my house, right now, taking over again, and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do about it because he's so much stronger than me; I'd be back to waiting for a chance to smack him with the skillet. I sit down on the couch, curling in on myself, putting my head down on my knees. I lace my fingers together over my head, hunching my shoulders to try and control the shaking.

_Breathe. Everything is transitory. All things pass. Pain is temporary; fear can be conquered. This moment will pass. Breathe. There is no need for crying. Relax. Let it flow. Breathe. _

It doesn't work. I hate him, I hate him so much, and I make it a point not to hate _anyone_ because hate is toxic; I can count on one hand the number of people I hate: two. Tommy, and my dad's second wife. I can be strong in just about every other way, but physically, I'm weak, and I'm certainly no match for someone as big as Tommy, the way I've been broken so many times now. I can't help it. I'm such a riot of fear, guilt, and sweet relief. I'm tangled, torn, I feel like I ought to be bleeding all over the floor; instead, it all comes out of my eyes in great floods, shudders out of me in wracking sobs that I can't seem to stop. I try to make myself as small as possible, I hate anyone being witness to my weakness, though I know there's no escaping it, not this time.

Zev's the first man to truly stand up for me against that asshole. In eight years, and all the boyfriends I've tried to move on with, not _one_ of them has stood up to Tommy more than once. He always manages to run them off, or Maria lures them away, and that's the end of it: I'm stuck with Tommy again. But not this time; oh my gods, not this time. Zev will actually and factually _kill him_ if he tries to put his hands on me again, and this is so powerful, so liberating it's terrifying.

I feel Zev settle onto the couch next to me, and I flinch away, instinctively. "Shh... _cara_, shh..." he murmurs, his hand sliding audibly across the cushion toward my knee. He strokes his fingers along my leg, eventually moving over my hip and up to my back, until I accept his touch more readily. I'm not sure when, exactly, he moved close enough for his thigh to be pressing against mine, but he is right with me, now, and he wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me toward him. I fall against his side, and he presses a cloth into my hand. I wipe at my face, trying to regain some composure, and he continues to stroke my arms and my back.

With everyone else, ever, it has always pissed me off. I don't want to be touched, not when I'm hurting, or upset. Other people always want to say that they understand, they know what I'm feeling, they share my pain, but no, they fucking don't. They have no idea. But... here is one man I know for a fact has suffered more than I have. "Zev-" I've never wanted to cling to someone in grief or pain – it is to be borne alone; you don't show people your weakness, or they'll exploit it – but here is someone who knows more about that subject than anyone else. I don't even know what to ask for. I have to fight my natural inclination, but I finally look up at him.

He sees something in my face, and strokes my cheek with one finger. He cups my face in his hands. "It fills you, and will devour you if you do not find a way to give it release. You cannot crush it; you must expel it. Change it, Lily, make it something else: turn the pain into pleasure, and it cannot harm you so much," he says, absolutely serious, and I suddenly understand why he is the way he is. I stare at him for several long moments, and then I take the relief that is offered, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him as though my life depends on it. At this point, my sanity certainly might.

He folds me tightly in his arms, lending me his strength, and I whimper, struggling with warring agony and rising desire. He smooths his hands down my back, then tucks one arm under my knees. Wrapping the other around my waist, he stands up with me in one fluid motion, and starts toward the bedroom. I run my fingers through his hair, over the outside edges and points of his ears. He loses a breath, and I realize he's sat down with me on the bed when he lays back, pressing me to the sheets.

He kisses across my jaw. "Where did he hurt you, _cara_? Show me." I am shuddering, caught in an agony of being neither one thing nor the other, neither pain nor pleasure, but both in equal measure, trying to breathe. My fingers trace the tracks of old scars, the sites of bruises long faded, lines of bones broken and muscles torn, and behind them follow his lips, his hands, his breath, overwriting, transmuting, stripping away interfering cloth until he can press his lips to every point. He spreads his hands across my stomach and kisses it, whispering something in Italian, and it pierces my heart. _Lily, bella regina mia, you are trying to have my children._

I'm suddenly okay with that. I may not have had to live with him, but I know this man better than any other, and since I put so much of myself into my writing, he knows me better than anyone else ever has. Things might be strange, but who we are when we are together is more real than anything else ever has been, ever could be. Technically, I've known this man for over a year. To him, it's been two. This isn't jumping into anything. This is less 'jumping in' than I usually do, in fact.

So I arch into him, his hands, his mouth, his hair whispering across my skin, his breath hot against my stomach. I give in to him, I accept; I let him chase away all the anguish and sorrow and blunt the jagged edges of my ruined heart. I let him write himself over every inch of me, my skin, my hair, my heart, my soul. I lay not merely unclothed, but naked beneath him.

Somewhere in the middle of this, all the pain and heartache melts away, and my hands seem to gain a mind of their own, wandering over Zev and pulling his clothing away, as well. By the time I realize that I've lost my clothes, so has he. I stare up at him as he runs his hand up my side again, and I realize there's no one else for me, ever. He's ruined me for anything, anyone less, and I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't be, compared to him.

"Zev," I whisper, completely overwhelmed again. I can't find the words, there is nothing I could say that would do this justice, that would make any sense, that would truly communicate what is going on in my head right now. So I get to my knees and take initiative, pressing myself to him tightly, asking him with my hands, showing him with my kiss, with the roll of my hips and the fluttering of my pulse. He wraps his arms around my waist and nudges my knees apart with his own, pressing back, so I lay down for him and he settles himself against me, his hands to either side of my shoulders.

_Is this what you would wish for yourself?_

Eyes of liquid amber, bronze skin tattooed in red, gentle hands and strong shoulders, iron will and deadly reflexes, humour and desire, truth and faith.

_Yes._

I reach up, my fingers across his face, tracing his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips, and he leans down, going to his elbows, and kisses me softly. His hands slide under me; I can feel his arms crossing behind my shoulders as his fingers curl over the tops of them, and I raise my hips to meet him as he pulls his back, knowing just by the way that he holds me that he means to claim me with authority. I wrap my arms and legs around him, ready for that, needing that more than anything else, ever.

"Lily," he whispers, and I look up at him. "Don't close your eyes."

This is the hardest thing I've ever tried to do. He holds my gaze steadily, watching my face. I'm not used to this level of vulnerability. Normally, I go through sex with my eyes closed almost the entire time, so I don't care what face I'm making, but being pinned down here under his gaze... Not only can I not hide, but there's no escaping the fact of who I'm with, nor for an instant, and this, I'm certain, is his intent.

Nothing has ever been so intense. I struggle with it, every moment, and somewhere, half-way through, my eyes fill with tears, and he rests his forehead against mine, but he doesn't stop. This is not a surrender, I cannot lose myself in this. This is deliberate, every motion a conscious choice.

"_I tuoi sospiri, le lacrime, il desiderio__, s__ì__, amora, solo per me_," he whispers. I only understand the second half of what he says, and I wonder distractedly if he's forgotten English again.

I can't help it, I am losing my ability to keep my eyes open, the longer he continues, and I whimper. I can't take any more of this intensity; I close my eyes and kiss him desperately, arching upward against him. As his tongue curls around mine, the heat that has been slowly and steadily burning brighter and hotter suddenly sweeps outward in flames so hot they sear me to my fingertips, to the roots of my hair, and I break the kiss, my head falling back, a silent scream clawing at my throat for lack of air to express it. He holds me tighter, kissing my neck, never slowing or faltering, waiting for me to ride it out, and I expect that, I really do, but it just doesn't end.

At some point, he begins to make this little hitching sound every time I clamp down around him. I see him struggling to maintain control, watch him losing that control, inch by inch, until I am pulling him over the edge to fall with me, that never-ending fire finally subsiding as he spills within me at last with a short, strangled cry that startles me. How much this means to both of us, that he can be brought to make such a sound for me; he is always so quiet in every way: no one standing ten feet away could ever have heard him, before this moment. I lean up and kiss him again as he stills, wrapping myself around him more securely, not wanting him to pull away.

We fall apart before either of us is really ready for it, but we stay pressed together anyway, refusing to let go of the kiss. I try to pour everything I'm feeling right now into his mouth; I want to give him everything. At last he pulls back to pepper my face with fierce yet gentle kisses, my eyelids, my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, my chin, my lips again. I open my eyes and look at him, running my fingers through his hair.

"Thank you," I whisper, another tear slipping down my temple and into my hair. I run my finger down his nose and across his lips. "I- I-" I can't say it, I can't, it's taboo, it's not what he wants to hear, it hurts him too much, I've never said it to a man before, it's too much, too much.

"Shh, _cara_, say it. Tell me," he murmurs, nuzzling my neck.

I tighten my arms around his shoulders and turn my head to whisper in his ear. I'm shaking with the fear of this statement, but it's so true, it consumes me, rises up in a flood that drowns my reservations and pours from my mouth. "I love you, Zevran... So, so much. Never leave me, oh, gods, please; I'd die inside." Never have I spoken such words to anyone, laid myself so bare. I could never trust anyone enough, not ever. In all my years, the only people I've said 'I love you' to have been family. Never Tommy, never anyone else. I always said, 'you, too'.

He tenses, holding me tightly, pressing his cheek to mine; I feel a tear that is _not mine_ roll down my temple, and I am shocked silent, clinging to him. "Lily-" his voice is harsh, strained, agonized; I can feel him grimacing, gritting his teeth, but he holds me so tightly. I kiss his shoulder, his neck, the edge of his ear, and stroke his back, trying to ease his tension.

Maybe if I do for him what he did for me, encourage him...? "Zev..." What can I say that won't sound stupid, trite? When he asked me to tell him, he didn't know what I was going to say. If I tell him to 'tell me', now, then I'm demanding reciprocation, and maybe he's not ready for that. I can't force him, hell no. I run my fingers through his hair. "It's okay, baby, you don't have to say anything. Just don't let go."

"I can't- Never- I'd never leave you," he manages, and I know how much it costs him just to say this much. "My life-" he swallows. "My heart- Lily... _sempre, solo per te._"

These are words I understand. _Always, only for you._ I turn my face and kiss him ardently, trying to show that I know, that I believe in him, and I feel the tension suddenly flow out of him. I curl against his chest as he rolls to the side, safe in the circle of his arms. He tucks my head under his chin, and I reach up, laying my hand against his cheek. He has relaxed completely, and he kisses the pad of my thumb as I stroke it across his lips.

He was right; the pain, the sorrow, the heartache – it is gone for now, drowned in the undertow beneath the cresting wave of the life we've begun. I pull the blanket over us, then settle my hand back against the side of his face. He pulls my leg up, wraps it over his hip; one day, I will figure out how to put myself against him like this, but for now, he still has to shift us himself, and I sigh happily, melting into him. His heart beats a steady rhythm beneath my ear, counterpoint to the pounding of the surf, in harmony with the pattering of the rain outside and the rising and falling of our breath. The music of our elements lulls me into tranquil sleep.

For the first time in years, the nightmares do not come.

I wake to a cop-knock on my front door. It's dark, and the flashing from my un-set alarm clock bathes the room in random alien green. I stumble out of bed, pulling the sheet with me. Whoever is knocking like that on my door, they can bloody well deal with me being naked. By the time I get to the door, Zev is right next to me, wearing pants. I bet he's got at least two daggers on him, too. I flip on the porch light and look through the peep-hole. Shit. It _is_ the cops.

I open the door cautiously, just a crack. "Can I help you, officer?" The cop turns around and I realize it's someone I know, which is a total relief. "Oh, hi Jack. What's up?" I open the door a little wider, clutching the sheet around me a little tighter. Jack took me to the homecoming dance once, when we were kids, but it never went anywhere. Still, he's a good guy, for a straight-edge.

He sighs. "Hi Lil," he says, sounding resigned. "You know what this is about, I'm guessing. Tommy called us this afternoon." I close my eyes and lean my head against the door frame.

"Yeah. And?"

"Well. Assault with a deadly weapon, battery, and malicious threats with intent to harm," he recites, looking at a little notebook he's pulled from his pocket. "Blond-haired man, approximately five-foot-ten." He looks at me and arches an eyebrow. I push the door wider, showing Zev standing next to me, shirtless. It ought to be pretty damned clear what's going on here. I bet my hair is everywhere.

"Yeah. Tommy showed up here unannounced and uninvited, tried to put his hands on me, and my boyfriend took exception to it. Since he's ex-military, it didn't go that well for Tommy." I glance at Zev, who folds his arms over his chest, eyeing Jack critically. "Uh, Tommy got out of here without a scratch. He's one lucky son-of-a-bitch, I can tell you that... but..." I look at Zev again, then back at Jack. "If he shows up here again, it's going to get bloody, I guarantee it."

Jack eyes Zev right back. "You know he has to actually be inside your house for it to be self-defence, since you're not married to him, right?" he asks, nodding toward Zev. I nod in agreement. "It helps that you've got a history, I'll give you that. Well, hey, sweetheart, I didn't say this, but if he does break in here? You don't want him to be able to testify."

I blink. "Did you just say-"

"No," he interrupts. "I didn't." He looks at Zev again. "You gonna stick around?"

Zev smirks. "I'm not leaving her here alone, if that is what you mean. This man, if he comes back, he will not find us unprepared."

I smile. "Jack, this is Zev. He lives here, now."

Jack nods and holds out his hand. Zev, surprised, shakes it. "Good to know there's finally a real man around here," he says, then glances at me, guiltily. "Sorry, Lil."

I sigh. "Anyone else, and I wouldn't forgive it, but you were there that night, Jack, so you're allowed. Just..." I shift uncomfortably. "Look, there's only four people in the whole gods-damned world who know what really went down that night, besides me. You, him, the doctor, and Zev. So, can we try and keep this wrapped up? Is there any way you can make sure that if something happens, you're the one to respond?"

He shakes his head, but he says, "I'll do my best, but I can't make any guarantees. I'll talk to the Chief, though; most of the boys know what happened that night, if not the specifics, and that you had a restraining order for a while. No one took his call seriously, but someone still had to come out here and check. You know. Paperwork."

I nod again. I do know; I filled out mountains of it that night. "Thanks, Jack," I say, softly.

"Take care, Lil. Watch yourself."

I close the door quietly and lean against it, looking at Zev in the darkness of the hallway, the porch light giving us dim shadows through the mottled glass of the side window. Shit. He needs a presence, a paper trail, and it has to be pronto. Tommy's not going to wait around for me to bumble through it; I need help. I chew my lip. How am I going to get him things like that? He doesn't even have a birth certificate. Oh, gods, this is going to be expensive, in more ways than one.

"What is it?"

"You're not documented. Everyone here has papers that show where they were born, where they live, cards with their names and pictures, everything. Without that, you don't officially exist, which becomes a very big problem for us if anyone looks too closely at you, and they will if Tommy comes by here and you have to kill him."

I really, really don't want to have to call in this favour, but I don't see any other way. I pick up the phone. Looking back at Zev, one more time, I put a finger to my lips, and dial a number I've known by heart for twelve years. I had hoped I'd never need to call it. It rings twice, and then clicks. There is nothing but silence on the other end. "Stalker. It's Falcon. I've become a Wendy. I need a really good, long story."

There is a long silence. "Falcon. I thought you flew."

I sigh. "I did." Another long silence. "Remember the other half of my name?"

"Phoenix." It's his turn to sigh. "Details."

"The line? Mine's not."

He snorts. "Fine." I hear some clicking in the background, and I remember how he could type 70 words a minute one-handed. I bet he's better than that, now. I wait. "I see you." A pause. "How fast?"

I bite my lip. "Hook's been scratching at the door tonight."

The line goes dead, and I hang up.

Zev is watching me very carefully. "So..." he says; his voice suddenly has a dangerous edge to it. "The Falcon and the Crow."

I sigh and look down. "Yeah... You and I have a little more in common than you might think."


	6. Transformation

_if some of my slang in this chapter and the next makes no sense to you, please say so. it all makes perfect sense to me, but i'm a little too close to the material. this is based on fact; very little has been changed... mostly the names of the not-so-innocent. everything else is truefax, folks. life on the street is not pretty._

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Zev folds his arms over his chest, and his face has gone a little hard. I look back at him and give him my version of blank-face, a bland little smile, but I know my mask can't match his. "I'm going to go get dressed. Please, build up the fire so we can have some coffee; it will be a long night. I estimate we've got about two, maybe three hours before Stalker shows up... I'll tell you everything. Just..." I drop the mask. "Stop looking at me like that. You didn't exactly tell me everything all at once, either." I can't stand the way he's staring at me, like I'm suddenly not trustworthy, so I go to him, looking up at him. "Zev. Whatever you're thinking that is putting that look on your face, you're wrong. You and I were never in the same line of business, all right? I just... know people."

He sighs and nods. "_Va bene. Va bene, cara;_ go get dressed, then we will talk," he says, waving me off.

I make my way back to the bedroom, feeling cold inside. Reaching out to my past is going to have unintended consequences; I can hear it coming like a freight train in the dark. I go clean up in the bathroom and brush my hair, looking myself in the eye in the mirror. It's time to put on my mask again. I have to be Falcon again, before Stalker gets here, because it is not Lily he knows.

I pull out my make-up kit and begin by paling my face. I pull out the kohl and stare at the pot for several long minutes. Picking up the brush, I roll it in the kohl and begin to draw the winged pattern on my forehead. I see Zev standing in the doorway as I begin to line my eyes, turning up at the outsides and down on the insides. I skip the crimson lipstick... the black too; I'm just not young enough to pull that off any more. Instead, I rub on a dark burgundy powder, staining my lips like blackberry juice. I colour in my eyelids with smoky greys and plums. In the end, I look like a different person. A person from twelve years ago.

A street kid named Falcon Phoenix.

I run a brush through my hair, pulling out all the tangles, and head for the closet. It's almost like a uniform, now. It's been folded and carefully stashed away, but I still have it. I pull out an old, battered black trench coat; the black top hat with the burgundy ribbons and the long, white scarf; a pair of black jump boots with parachute cord laces – after the first several pairs of laces broke, snagged, ripped, or fell apart at the worst possible moment, I learned that paracord never fails.

I put on a bra and panties, and wriggle into a pair of tight black jeans. In the back of my sock drawer, I have some sleeves that were made by cutting the crotch and the toes out of a pair of lace nylons; I pull them on over my head and tuck the waistband under my bra, stick my thumbs through the holes in the edges of the sleeves. I run my fingers over the cut edges, where I rolled it under and sewed it with the only thing I had at the time: red embroidery floss.

I put on the old t-shirt that has a picture of Robert Smith on the front. In a hatbox under my bed, there is a plain, black leather dog collar; I put it on. In the pocket of my trench coat, I find a battered pack of clove cigarettes, still sealed, and stare at them for a long time. Djarum Blacks. I sit down and put some socks on, then slip my feet into the boots. I wrap the laces around my ankles, tie them off with a square knot, and tuck the ends into the sides, the tongue flopping forward at the ankle and the tops curling aside.

I carry the hat and the coat into the living room, and Zev follows me, curious. I lay them on a chair, and grab a small box off the mantel-piece. I sit down, staring at my hands, then open the box. Inside is a very specific set of rings and a silver ankh necklace. Falcon's jewellery. I put them on, assuming a persona I haven't worn in twelve years.

I jump in randomly, in the middle, starting with the first thing that comes to mind. "I heard Rooster was killed for lack of my being there to watch his back. We made this rule, once upon a time, after I got kidnapped, that none of us go anywhere alone. We always went in pairs. I was his partner. But... I cut and ran one night. I had to, I had to save my own skin. He was safe with the other boys at the house, but I was his second. He was our leader, and I was the Girl. The Wendy. I took care of them. I stitched them up and kept them sane, and they did their best to protect me. You have to understand, we were all kids at the time. I was sixteen, seventeen. They all ranged between fifteen and nineteen. We were starving, living on the fringes, barely surviving."

My tone begins to take on a more clipped cadence as I fall into an old speech pattern with the donning of the rings. I am shrugging on my old self just like my old coat, as I stand up and put it on, along with my hat, automatic gestures returning to me as I straighten out the tails, flipping my hair out of the way. I suddenly have the urge to _walk_. Falcon was constantly in motion. I find my old, fingerless black gloves in one of my pockets and put them on. Holding my arms out from my sides, I say, "This is Falcon Phoenix, and she is _not_ Lily Maxwell. Until I take this off, I cannot be her. Not for a second. The game we are about right now is too dangerous. This is akin to if I went with you into Crow territory, though hopefully nowhere near as immediately dangerous. You must trust me here as surely as I would have to trust you there. We are clear, yes?"

He nods, and I nod back. "I will return to who I am supposed to be, later, but for now, you must treat me as a different person, someone you have not yet met, someone _not your girl_, because I am not the same now, and I might need your help later to take it off, because... well, I bet you know: it's easier to pick up than it is to put down, isn't it." I sigh and roll my shoulders as he gives me an appraising look that tells me he's seeing me in a new light. "Now. I must smell like Falcon." I cross the room and go straight out the front door, my legs automatically reverting to my old ground-eating stride.

I go outside and open the pack of cigarettes, pulling out a long, black stick. I put it in my mouth and light it with the lighter still sitting in the coat, breathing in the bitter-sweet, age-harshened clove smoke. My hands stop shaking on the second drag, as the nicotine hits my system, and I smile, feeling the wolfish grin of my youth returning.

I tuck the smoke into the corner of my mouth and fish out a little vial of oil from another pocket. It's still there: my own brand of perfume, concocted on the fly from a custom perfumery long, long ago. Mostly vanilla, with coconut, musk, and amber, and then just two drops of orange and one drop of patchouli, to the whole bottle. Just a spice note. This is the scent of Falcon: Amarinth, coffee, and clove cigarettes, wind and rain and bootblack. I rub the oil onto the critical pulse-points – wrists, behind the ears, in the cleavage, right between my thighs – and then stash it back in the pocket. I run my oiled finger around the brim of my hat, another old habit, and smile to myself that I have done this, too, automatically.

I take a couple more drags off the smoke, then hand it to Zev. "It does not smell the same," he comments, and I shake my head, blowing out the smoke.

"It's not. It's clove." He takes a drag off it, then hands it back. He shakes his head, and I shrug. I am getting antsy. I take off down the path to the beach, restless, pacing, and circle the house four times before I run out of cigarette and have to stub it out in the ashtray on the front porch. The pack is tucked securely in my inside breast pocket. He cannot have it, not yet. I may need them to bribe Stalker. "Let's make the coffee," I suggest. "These things take time, and coffee is part of the ritual, too."

He nods, and we return to the warmth of the fire. He brews and I pace. This house is suddenly too confining. I need to be walking down a city street at top speed. I need to be headed to Beth's Cafe. I need to be on my way to the Hurricane. I need to be striding across Red Square or crashing through the brush at Ravenna Park. I need to be walking down University Way, I need to be on my way to Rocky Horror at the Admiral, I need to have connections that must be made before the night is out. I need to have information to pass on and deals to make, I need to make it to the parking lot at St. Mary's to catch Street Links for a sandwich and a cup of soup. I need to have children to protect from the night and wounds to stitch closed, I need whiskey in the dark and morose conjectures about our life expectancies. I need for Rooster to not be dead on my watch.

Now it's _me_ rattling around the house like a caged tiger. But she's coming back, she is. Falcon Phoenix, the girl who will kick your fucking ass if you say anything racist, the girl who once took down two members of the Mexican Mafia single-handed because some _culo_ started spouting bullshit about how he'd fucked me to his friends, and pissed off his girlfriend, and so she had to come cut a bitch, didn't she? Only I'm not so easy, and you don't bring a pissy little knife when everyone knows I've got a baseball bat and about twenty pounds of chains around my waist.

My chains.

I head for the bedroom abruptly, and Zev watches me stalk past. Rummaging around behind the dresser, I find the chains, stuffed in the corner when they fell off the top, ages ago. I wrap them around my waist, let them hang down my thigh. Then I look around and find my bat. I pick it up, swing it a few times. It's like an old friend in my hand, and I suddenly _am her_. The things I do for love. I reach into my underwear drawer, all the way to the back, and pull out the knife that goes on the side of my boot, on the inside, right next to my ankle, just behind the bone.

I stride out into the living room again, bat in hand, and I can tell, he can see, I'm a new animal. "Stalker will descend without warning. He will test me, test my defences. If you defend me, it will show my weakness. If I am weak, he will not help us." I see him dart a glance out toward the beach, and I know what he's thinking. "I could go sit on the beach, and force him to approach me in the open, but that shows cowardice. It's too safe. I need to be able to defend my home." I begin checking the windows in the house, locking all the doors. "It's true that it may be-" I glance at the clock, "-another hour or two before he arrives, but it's also true that he may send scouts." I sit down again by the fire and pick up the cup he's poured for me.

"Who is this man to you?"

I take a deep breath. "That is a long story, really, but I'll try to keep it brief." He nods. "For many reasons, I was forced to leave home when I was sixteen. That would've been fine, except that here in my world, you're not considered an adult until you turn eighteen. There's no compromise, regardless of your skills. You can't rent a room, own any property, nothing like that, unless you're... well, noble, basically. We call them 'celebrities'. Anyway, what this meant for me was a hard existence on the streets of a large city, eating what scraps I could find and defending myself as well as I could.

"On the street, it's either kill or be killed, sometimes. In order to keep ourselves alive, we have to band together. There were six of us: all boys, save me. We were: Falcon, Rooster, Stalker, Mouse, Doc, and Grave. Rooster was our leader, and so named because of his bright red mohawk." I gesture with my hands to show what that means. "He was brilliant, charismatic, kind, and protective, but he was also wicked-ass brutal when we were in trouble. Mouse was called that because he could make himself so small and quiet, no one would ever notice he was there. People forgot he was present, and would say or do things that they didn't intend for others to witness. Useful talent, that.

"Doc, he was very much into psychology, the science of the mind, and would study other people very carefully, determine their motives, their intentions, practically read their minds. He could tell you, without a doubt, whether someone was lying. He also had a vast knowledge of poisons, medicines, and plants. Grave... got his name because he tended to put people in one, when crossed. We get in a fight, it was Grave I wanted at my back. And Stalker... he could shadow anyone, and never be seen or heard. He could find out anything you wanted to know. He made us fake id's when we were kids, back when that kind of thing was still possible. Now, he knows how to manipulate the system so that he can get information he's not supposed to have, from government sources, and he can put information into them that's not supposed to be there, to create identities or fix things.

"Back when we were still a... uh..." I gesture, trying to come up with a word, beginning to pick up Falcon's tendency to finish sentences with her hands.

"Cell?" Zev offers.

I snap my fingers and point at him. "Right. Anyway, back when we were still together, his powers were not so great, but it was also a bit of an easier time. Things have changed drastically, and the game is much more dangerous. Still, Stalker owes me a life-debt. We had this rule: no one goes anywhere alone. I think I mentioned this." He nods. "Before, it was each for themselves, and all for the group, but then, one night, I got kidnapped. I was gone for three days, and barely escaped with my life. I only made it out of there because the man holding me captive failed to notice that a spoon was missing from the plate of I-dare-not-think-what that he made me eat. I sawed at my bonds all night, while he slept. Before dawn had fully lit the sky, I bolted.

"The man followed me, and I was forced to run through the streets of the city completely naked, in the rain. I tore up my feet on broken glass and stone, and quickly hid inside a refuse bin to evade him. In the morning, it was Rooster who came to fetch me, after Stalker had determined my location. He gathered me up and carried me back to our squat – the house we were occupying illegally – and got me put back together.

"The man had taken my clothes; I lost my knives, my boots, everything. My boys, though, they took care of me. I spent a week laying there in the squat while my feet healed. They brought me bandages, new clothes. Grave gave me a knife." I hold up the knife that clips on my boot and show it to him. It is all black, the blade matte black. I flick it open with practised ease, then flip it closed again and toss it to Zev. He turns it over in his hands, examining the latch. "Rooster spanged enough money to get me a pair of boots," I say, gesturing to my feet.

"Spanged?" he echoes, and I duck my head. Another term of my old paradigm. He hands me back the knife, and I tuck it back in my boot.

"It's a shortening of the phrase 'spare change'. Basically, begging for coppers. Anyway, look: Doc's coat, Mouse's chains; Stalker got me the hat, said it made me look like Death." I pause, realizing this is a cultural reference that will go over his head, and grab one of my Sandman books off the shelf. I flip through it, find a picture, and show him. "It's a story you might like, actually. You should read them, when you have the chance. Anyway, at the time, my hair was black, because I used to dye it." I put the book back on the shelf. "They got me another pack, filled it, replaced the things that I had lost, as well as they could. I owed them my life. So, I set about discharging those debts.

"Doc was easy; I stitched up a gash in his leg that went all the way from the inside of his knee to the outside of his thigh," I say, drawing a line diagonally across my own leg with my finger. "With very little to ease the pain. We had a bottle of whiskey, a needle, and some white thread. The whiskey went on the cut and down his throat, the rest was hours of careful stitching and tons of lost blood. In the end, I was the one who saved his life.

"Mouse got himself tangled with the police – the guard – and I provided him an alibi, said he was my lover, that I had been with him all night. I busted Grave out of a foster home... uh, like an orphanage situation, you know, easy for abuse to happen. He was the youngest of us, fifteen. Rooster, I was his backup when he went to do some negotiations with some of the Mexicans, and when it went south – you know, fell apart into violence – it was my bat took the teeth of the guy who almost sunk a knife in Rooster's neck.

"So me and the rest of the boys, we were square. But Stalker... Like I said, we were kids. He was the oldest of us, nineteen when I left. He was always taking on these jobs that would put him really close to danger, you know, straight into the lion's den. He took a government job, I don't know why. He was supposed to inform on some Skinheads who were running meth. Uh... Bunch of Nazi sympathisers, you know, and no hair. Meth's this drug that makes you really crazy, manic, tireless, obsessive, paranoid, make people hallucinate after a while. Nasty shit, highly addictive, rips people's lives apart, but very easy to manufacture, and once people are hooked into it, they will do just about anything, even murder their own children, to have more of it."

I start bouncing my knees, getting agitated. "So, you can imagine, it's highly lucrative, you know, and these people protect it with vicious tenacity. Problem with it is that it fragments, it powders. Can't make it or carry it without getting it on you, in you, right, and so these fuckers were crazy, wild-eyed, and paranoid. Stalker, he wasn't equal to it, because these guys were so damned jumpy. He got in too deep. So, here's what I did.

"I was there the night he had a tail, one of these scary guys chasing him, you know, gonna knife him in the dark." I rise, stalking back and forth. "Other thing about these guys is that they're highly distractable. Me, I've got dark hair, yeah, but the blue eyes and the pale skin's what they care about. So I swing myself out into his path, and I provide a distraction.

"Problem, though. My face is known. So I gotta talk fast, right. I say I'm doing a runner, I wanna change teams. He's the leader, you know, so I cosy up, acting scared: little girl needing protection, right." I make doe eyes and simper, folding my hands under my chin as though I'm begging. "He's such a big, strong man. So handsome. So able to protect me from the people I'm about to turn traitor on. I've just been so confused, but ever since the night the Mexicans tried to kill us, I saw the light, and oh, won't you please help me."

The act falls away just as quickly. "Only way to get Stalker out of there in one piece: I sacrificed myself. I let the guy take me under his wing, let him... take me..." I shudder at the memory, "...to seal the deal. I spent four days with him, biding my time, talking their talk and walking their walk, and not a damned thing my boys could do to bust me out of it." Automatically, my fingers stray to my pocket, and I grab another cigarette out.

I go out the door, pacing across the porch, and he follows, standing in the doorway, watching

me. I light the smoke, gesturing with it as I speak. I start holding up the fingers of my free hand, one by one. "Destroyed my reputation. Put my own life in danger. Had to leave Rooster to hang out to dry against the Mexicans, which got him killed. Saved Stalker's life. Fled the street after, to keep from getting killed by the Sharps." I glance at him, and translate: "Skin Heads Against Racial Prejudice. Bald anti-Nazi's. I was a Sharp turned traitor, you see. Had my head shaved, white walls, all the way around. Used to wear liberty spikes, 'fore Stalker got me the hat." I motion with my hands, outlining the shape of that haircut, what the mohawk looked like when it was up.

"Dude never forgave me for it. Knew it was the only way out, right, knew I couldn't do anything else to save him, knew that anything less would've got us all killed. This way, I protected his life, and his identity. Skins never knew who it was'd been spying on 'em, and when I cut and ran, it didn't blow back on the rest of my boys. Problem, though. It was Doc and Grave, Stalker and Mouse, Rooster and me. When I took off, Rooster was flying solo. Never forgave Stalker for it, even though it's not technically his fault." I stop abruptly, staring out into the night. All is quiet. I close my eyes and listen, but there's nothing but the surf.

I start pacing again. "So, I saved his life after he helped save mine; square. But, I destroyed my rep, had to fuck the enemy, lost Rooster, and was forced to flee, getting out on my own, no less, so that was four more. So I called it in when I got to Oly – next big city down, maybe hundred miles in between – had him contact some Sharps, so got me back for having to fuck the enemy just getting me a squat. Two was when he repaired my rep with them, telling them what I did to save him, and why, so rep for rep. Three, he took down the ring of Skins, probably ratted, so they didn't come after me for it, so safety for having to flee.

"Twelve years now, I never called in the fourth. Couldn't think of anything that'd make up for him making me lose my boy. Not like that." I look at Zev. "But now, it's a life for a life. He made it so I lost Rooster, and now he's gonna make it so I can keep _you_. Final squaring. But first, I gotta prove that I'm not soft, because I have no doubt he knows what's been going down with me, since it's in the info that can be got from the cops. Police." I shake my head and stub out the tag-end of the clove, then look up at him. "So now you know."

He is quiet for a very long time, watching me pace and flip my Zippo between my fingers. At last, he asks, "Why is a show of strength necessary? Is it not enough that the debt is owed?"

I stop, looking at him. "No. 'Cause if I'm too soft, he'll think I'd roll on him, and what he does for me is going to put him in danger. He's gotta know that I'm not a rat, that I'm not so weak that my secrets can be had for easy coin. I gotta prove that I'm still Falcon, not some pussy little bitch can't keep her shit, gets pushed around by a fuckin' man. _Fuck!_"

Falcon would have murdered Tommy in his sleep, the first time he hit her. What happened? I don't know. I thought I loved him? I never said it, it's true...

After Dad died, I was a fucking wreck, that's what. I needed someone to lean on. I moved too many times, needed some place solid to land. Dad helped with that, and then he died, leaving me the house. Mom took off with some old, grizzled hippie, and so I'm here, left alone with Dad's ghost, wandering the house like a shell of myself, and there was Tommy to fill me up with his world. It was good, for a time... but in the end, it made me weak, and now here I am, wondering if Stalker is going to find me lesser, and call the debt paid by my toothlessness.

I do another lap around the house, and stop behind it, listening intently. I heard gravel. I flatten myself to the wall and creep back around to the front. Zev has disappeared. There is an extra shadow on the porch, and I see the glint of steel in the moonlight. Sloppy. I duck back around the corner and light another smoke. Keeping the smoke in one hand, I take my hat off, thrust it out at head-height, around the corner, really quick, and drop it. A knife goes whistling past to bury itself in the sand, straight through the space where my breast should have been. I'm just glad it misses my hat. I whip the chains off my waist and wrap them around my fist, letting the ends trail on the ground.

Time to play.


	7. Social Engineering

The critical question is whether or not the person on my front porch is Stalker, or a scout. I wait, but there's no further sally. Stalemate. What next? I grip the chains tightly in my fist, then grab the scarf tails and yank my hat back toward me, catching it and putting it back where it belongs. Skulking along the end of the house, I circle from the other direction, and catch a shadow detaching itself from a clump of scrub, but it's heading in the wrong direction, back around the front of the house. I tuck the cigarette in the corner of my mouth and climb up to the roof, letting the chains loop down around my elbow. There's no one up here, which is good. I take a moment to finish my smoke, and crush it out on the sole of my boot. I silence my chains and creep along until I can get a vantage on the porch and look down.

There is a man, looking around the corner of the house, expecting me to come from behind it, instead of from above. From here, it's impossible to say whether it's Stalker or not; nothing but moonlight and shadows. I ease down to the porch roof; a ten foot drop is way preferable to fifteen. I sit on the edge, dangling my feet over the side, and quickly spool a length of chain between my hands. Whoever is standing there suddenly has a premonition, and looks up just as I'm about to push off. I go for it anyway as they scramble backward, landing heavily in a crouch.

But now they've darted around the corner again, and they know I've gone over the roof at least once. They're likely to stay there, being rabbity, and think that I'm gonna come 'round from the other side again. So I pelt loudly across the porch, then creep back and hide behind the table and chairs. The figure skulks past, going for my front door. At the last moment, I pop up and loop the chain 'round the guy's shoulders, tugging him off balance to throw him down on the boards. I turn with the chain as he goes down and leap on him, putting my boot on his chest and leaning forward into his face. The chains are tight in my fists as the man grunts from the impact of my weight.

I pull the chain again, transferring my grip so I can get my knife out of my boot, the right one, the one on his chest. I flip it open and show the blade and he stops struggling, at once. "Do I hafta cut you, or you gonna just tell me what you're doin' here?"

He laughs, and a slow smile spreads across my face. "You're downright hospitable," he gasps, as I'm still crushing his chest.

I rise and hold out my hand. "You're gettin' rusty, Stalker. Time was, you'd never have fallen for a hat trick." He takes it and I brace my legs, hauling him to his feet.

"Yeah, we're both gettin' old. I heard your chains." 

I shrug. "Not much use for it anymore; got out the game long ago, you know that."

He laughs again. "Yet, here I am."

I sigh, and nod. He hands me back my chain. "You got your knife?" I gesture toward the beach, where it had flown off into the darkness. He nods. "Right. Well. Come inside then, have some fuckin' coffee, yeah? Where's your bag?"

He blinks, and I smirk. Turns out his kit's under my porch, and then we head inside. Zev's sitting by the fire, and I turn that smirk on him. "Stalker, Zev. Zev, Stalker. Play nice." I ditch my chain on the table and head for the kitchen for another mug while the men size each other up and try to determine whether they can take down the other. Dollars to doughnuts on Zev, obviously, but Stalker doesn't know that.

I set the cup down in front of him and sit next to Zev. "So," I say, getting straight down to business. "Life for a life, yeah?" I fix him with a hard eye, and Stalker nods, once, knowing the score.

"Final square," he says, and it's my turn to nod.

"Right. So here's the problem: Zev here has no papers of any kind. Nothing. So we gotta build him something that shows him as former military, maybe deep cover, special ops, something like that, so that when and if he does what he does, there aren't too many eyebrows raised. Not only that, but it's international; he's gotta come from Italy."

He leans back, looking shocked, and I give him a hard eye. "You know what that's gonna take, Falcon? That's some hard time you're askin' for if things don't go all kings and aces for us, you realize."

My lips thin. "You wanna try necromancy instead?" I ask, my voice going harsh.

He holds his hands up. "All right, all right, fuck, settle down. Didn't say I wasn't gonna help." He turns his gaze on Zev, an appraising eye. "You know, you look familiar," he says, after a moment.

Zev arches an eyebrow. "Oh? I am fairly certain we have never met."

I tense. Shit. I never explained just exactly what Thedas is, to me, to this world. If Stalker spills at this point, I don't know how this is gonna play out. I jump in, no plan. "Look, let's just focus on what we gotta do, 'kay? We need to start with birth certificates, and put him in the system all over the map."

Stalker sighs, and nods. He pulls out a laptop and sets it up, attaching a strange little printer to the side of it, and some odd-looking peripherals. His bootup sounds like a handshake, and I smile.

"56k, huh? Ghetto," I comment, and he smirks.

"Yeah, got so's I missed the sound, once it became obsolete."

I laugh. "Softie." He laughs, too.

"Missed your face, bitch."

"You too, fucker."

We both smile, but it's sad, strained. He shakes his head and looks down. "Right, so, first thing, need photos." He looks up, expectantly, and I shake my head.

"Scratch," I say, and he curses.

"What the fuck you want me to do? What, he just fall out the sky?"

Zev and I exchange looks, and I look back at Stalker. "Yeah. Let's go with that."

Stalker stares at me for a long time. "Fuck," he says, at last. "You're fuckin' crazy."

I wave a hand. "What, you forget that part? C'mon. Build it."

"Medical records, at least? Dentist? Come on, Falcon, throw me a bone, here."

I shake my head. "Got no bones to throw."

"I'm completely faking this? You realize if he goes to the hospital, you're made, in that case, right? 'Cause I have to steal shit from other places?" I spread my hands. He sighs and shakes his head. "Okay, fuckin' fine. So, can't be from Italy, direct. Gotta have him from some place they don't have records yet. Maybe few places in the Amazon, out in the desert in Africa, y'know, maybe some place in India. Pick a spot, we'll start there."

"Let's go with South America. Lots of war there, lots of people not documented at all. Say, orphanage." He nods, his fingers already flying over the keys.

"Cambodia," he puts in, and I nod.

"'Kay, then adoption."

He sighs. "That's gonna be harder. Need two dead parents for that. Italy, you said?" I nod. "Why Italy?"

"He speaks Italian, native language. So, Italy."

He arches an eyebrow at us. "What is it, amnesiac?"

I shake my head. "Wouldn't believe me if I told you. Leave it."

He eyes Zev critically. "I swear I- Right. Give me a name."

I look at Zev. "You need an alias."

"'Zev', you said, right? That's Hebrew. You Jewish?" Stalker asks, and I look back at him.

"No, but that's convenient," I answer. "Go with that."

"Right... Dead Italian Jewish adoptive parents. You're killin' me, Falcon. How old are you, guy?" Zev grins and I look at him. That's a really, really good question; I always wondered. He opens his mouth to say, but then Stalker interrupts him. "Wait, doesn't matter. Found a couple. You're thirty-eight."

Zev looks at me and smirks. I arch an eyebrow. This question is not put to rest. I will wrest it out of him, one way or another. Eventually. Stalker opens his kit and pulls out a wooden box. He selects special papers out of it and runs it through his printer, followed by a lot more stuff. After about two hours, we've got a birth certificate and a set of adoption papers that show Zev having originated in Cambodia, adopted from an orphanage by the Morenos. "So that's your new last name: Moreno," Stalker says, and I laugh at the irony.

Stalker rises and cracks his knuckles, stretches his back. "I need some more coffee. This is gonna take forever. You know we still gotta fake some medical records, put you in the military, then you need a passport. Maybe you can be officially dead." 

I shake my head. "Too many questions if he gets discovered here."

Stalker shrugs. "Black ops, government doesn't say jack about you. They never heard of you. They call to check up on this guy, they're gonna get stonewalled, no matter which way they turn, no matter what we put in here anyway. Only thing is, we don't want Italy breathing down your neck, so it's gotta be perfect." He yawns and heads out the door, leaving everything on the table. I follow and offer him an old clove. He smiles bitterly. "Still smoking Blacks?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Same pack. Didn't crack the plastic 'til tonight. Felt like blood money."

He shakes his head, too, ruefully. "It was."

I flip open my Zippo. "Here's to us, hard bitches to the end."

"This one's for him," Stalker says, lighting from the flame at the same time I do. We used to call that 'fucking', because we both had our smokes in the same flame at the same time, cigarettes being phallic and all. Two sticks in the heat. He leans back and coughs twice, and I look up at him. So much flooding back, so much. I see the tattoo on his neck, the little bird, and he looks down at me, sadly.

"Ancient history," I say, reading his mind – always could.

He reaches up and touches my temple, the edge of the wing-tip, then lets his hand fall again. I shake my head. "You always said that," he says, referring to my negation, and I sigh.

"Yet, I did everything for you."

"Everything but perch."

I drop my eyes. "Never forgave me that, huh."

"Not hardly."

"What'm I s'posed to do about it now? It's been over a decade."

"I know you never married, Lily," he says, and I look up sharply. He's never used my real name before, though I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he knows it. The look on his face makes me take a step back. Oh, _fuck_. _This_ is the score? I need him to keep his head in the game, not be mooning after me, not with Zev right there, not with his life on the line, and if I say no, what happens then? Will he be so happy to help when he realizes that Zev's the reason I'd turn him down, that I'm not just helping out a friend?

"Stalker... we were kids," I say, gently. "You had a thing for me, I had a thing for Doc, and Doc liked Grave, but Grave only loved his knives. We were dysfunctional. It was like Stockholm Syndrome; we only felt that way because we had to survive together. It didn't have anything to do with who we really were, what we really wanted." I shake my head, looking down and grimacing. "It woulda been nothin' but a fling, all heartache and flames in the end, and you know it," I say, softly. "Stop diggin' around in the graveyard, Stalker; those bones've been buried so long it's gonna spill blood to dig 'em up."

"Falcon, you never called it in. There was no resting, no 'buried', not until we were square," he says, suddenly invading my space, and I'm abruptly twelve years ago and four hundred miles away: Seattle in the dark, the night I left, and refused him his last request. I look up at him, that old tension humming right where we left it. "You still smell the same," he says.

I open my mouth to speak and move to take a step back, but my boot hits the wall – nowhere to back to; amateur! – and Stalker leans down and kisses me. I squeak, the rush of a twelve-year-old denial making me hesitate, but I break away, stepping quickly to the side, and cover my mouth with my hand, looking at him, wide-eyed.

He sighs, making no move toward me. "You owe me one, you know."

I swallow. I had said... long ago. _If I live through this, I'll kiss you for it._ I still owe him, he's right. "C'mon," I say, stubbing out the cigarette. I turn toward the door and hold it open for him.

We take our places in the living room again, and I am careful to remain neutral, now that I'm aware of what's at stake, here. Stalker gets back to work, which is a relief. Things are silent for a long time, while we all drink another cup of coffee and I start to pace again. Eventually, Stalker gives me his kit so I can set up an impromptu studio in the corner. I hang a cloth on the wall and set up his tripod and fancy damned camera.

Following Stalker's distracted instructions, I first take a photo of Zev as he is, then we change his shirt, unbraid and wet his hair to make it look darker, and longer, and take a second one with a slightly weaker strobe to the lights. The two pictures look so different from each other, I would believe they had been taken at different times. Third, we take his shirt off completely, I pull his hair back and wind it up into a bun, to get it out of his face, and Stalker tells him to look as serious as possible. The face he wears in that moment is chilling, and I suddenly see a very cold-blooded person in front of me. I swallow and take the picture.

I fold it all up and put it away, handing the camera back to Stalker, and then I go outside. My hands are shaking, and I light another cigarette. I pace back and forth, Falcon and Lily warring for dominance. I can't hold her, Falcon, not for long, not without actually being there, having some place to go, something to do. Stalker is unnerving me. Zev, with his silence, is unnerving me. Tommy being by today, unnerving all by itself. Too much in one day, too much in one night, too much this week. I shake my head, lengthening my stride, making myself keep Falcon on top.

Next thing I have to do is figure out a way to get Stalker out of here without him trying to pick up the threads of an old weaving that's come unravelled long since. By the time I come back inside, Stalker is printing up more documents, and we suddenly have a passport, immigration papers, a green card, an account with INS, a bank account in Zev's 'name', and proof that he was once in the military, in Italy, amongst other things. "The military documentation is gonna take more time," Stalker remarks, draining another cup of coffee. "But the bones are there. Need a couple more hours to flesh that out, 'case anyone goes lookin' for it, but we're just about done here."

I stare at him in shock. Six hours to create an entire life, the way Stalker does it. "Hack the planet," I say, numbly, and he snorts. I pick up the page that Zev signed his new name to half a dozen times, for dissemination across many different documents. "How well is this going to hold up?"

Stalker shakes his head. "Should be okay. I buried it in the FBI and SISMI – that's like, Italian CIA, kinda – anyway, I put him in their records as being someone that was strictly black-ops activity; he's a former _Folgore_ with the Italian army – shock troops, you know, paratroopers, front line men. Special training, like you said. Everything is marked as sealed files, so no one is gonna go prying into it, it's all like, cold case stuff, you know? Should be fine, long as you don't get yourself arrested, man."

I shake my head. "I've got someone around here after me, and he might get dead." Stalker looks at us, then says to me, "Then whatever happens to this guy, it's your fault, and it was self defence. Easy." He chews his lip, looking at the screen. "Now, I got stuff coming for you, packages of things that you have to keep around, stuff that tells the story, you know, things like tags and patches, uniforms, records. You have no idea how much paper trail a person leaves behind in their life, Falcon, you really don't, especially not someone pushing forty like your friend over here. Make sure you read the file on his bio when it gets here. Memorize it; you gotta know it off by heart, guy," he says to Zev.

"But... if stuff arrives here in the mail, doesn't that mean that it's got a trail on it?"

Stalker sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "The mail? Really? What do you think I am, an amateur?"

I blush. "Okay, sorry; so tell me what's going on."

He shakes his head. "Unmarked cars, personal deliveries, brown packages, no names save yours. Deliveries for Falcon Phoenix, a name that does not officially exist, known to very few. Good thing you didn't change it, like you planned, eh?"

I sigh. "I still kinda wish I did, but it's been better to leave it." He looks at me for a long moment, over the screen of his laptop, then goes back to work. I go outside again, and Zev follows me. I lean against the railing, propping my hands on it, and looking at the ground. I suddenly feel exhausted, despite the two cups of coffee. I'm too old for this life.

I feel a hand at the small of my back and look up. Zev is calling me back to myself, and I can't come back, not yet. I stand up. "What this is, it is dangerous, yes?"

"Very," I reply. "Most dangerous thing we could do, just about. It's the kind of thing we could all get killed for. Buried in a hole so deep no one'd ever know we were alive at all." Grim conjectures about our life expectancies. I snort. Careful what you wish for, right.

"You do this for me." His voice is strained, and I look him in the eye.

"We keep our heads down, don't make any sudden moves, no one will have a reason to look at us." Then I realize, he's not talking about that, not exactly, and I touch my earring. "Anything," I whisper. The front door opens and closes, and Stalker comes out.

"Got another one of those?" I toss him the pack.

"Keep 'em."

He looks between us, Zev and me, and sudden understanding lights his face. A small, rueful smile plays about his lips, and he dips his head to light the smoke from his own flame. He takes a long drag, looking up at the sky for a moment, then looks back to us. "How long you been together?"

Zev and I exchange looks. "Two days," I say, at exactly the moment that he says, "Two years."

We look at each other again, and trade answers. Stalker laughs, and I say, hopelessly, "It's complicated."

"Internet relationship, yeah?"

Hah. Close enough. "Something like that," I say, shaking my head. Zev arches an eyebrow, and I turn my head, so my hair hides my face. "Later," I mouth, and he nods. Oh, gods. I'm going to have to explain Dragon Age, next. And then... my fanfic. Oh... fuck _me_. I wonder what the girls on the journals would say if I just posted a photo of us with no explanation... I bust out laughing, and both the men look at me strangely. I wave them off. "Nothing, never mind." I snort, trying to get a grip on myself. Too much, too quick. I'm gonna crack and go completely off my nut, I can see it now. And they'll all say, 'I don't know what happened, she used to be so sensible'. I shake my head. "Let's get this done, yeah?" I say to Stalker, and he nods.

Two more hours, and then he's heading for the door. He's sworn to keep an eye on his work, make sure we stay green over the next year or two. He's promised to watch for us trying to enter and exit the country to make sure that when we take our inevitable trip to Italy, we don't run into any snags. He stands on my porch, staring down at me, his bag over his shoulder.

"This is it," he says, "Final square, Falcon."

I know I owe him that kiss. I know I do. He'd let me slide on it, knowing there's something between Zev and I, now, and he's not the kind to step on that, but we both know: we'd think less of me, if I copped out like that. So I reach up and trace the little bird tattoo on the side of his neck, the one he swore up and down he hadn't got for me, but we all knew he had. I take my hat off and go up on my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck, and kiss him like I should've done, at least once, back then. He surprises me with how strongly he holds on to me, with his sudden intensity, and he startles a tear from my eye as I realize what Falcon had passed up with a crazy infatuation over a gay guy.

"Stalker, I'm sorry," I whisper when he finally lets me down with clear reluctance.

"So am I," he says, hoarsely. "I should have been with him."

"Me too," I say, choking on it. "We both let him down."

"You showed your colours, though, when you did what you did for me, you know that, right? I always knew how you felt, even though you wouldn't say the words."

"Couldn't," I say, dropping my gaze. "Still can't. Never could."

"But, you did, didn't you?"

I nod. "Enough to almost die for," I say, looking up at him. I put my top hat on his head, knowing it will fit him, glad that it still does. "Square, Stalker," I whisper, my fingertips sliding along his jaw before I finally let my hand drop.

He bows his head. "Yeah. Square."

"Thank you."

He flashes me that smirk, that leer, that take-your-chances smile. "Psh. I was never here," he says, his old way of saying goodbye.

I cover my mouth with my fingers and watch him walk away.


	8. Stripped Bare

It's 2 a.m.

I return to the house, and look at Zev. He is sitting on the couch, reading over the papers Stalker left behind. I take off my gloves and stuff them back in my pocket, followed by my rings, my necklace, my collar; all of them go into the pockets of my trench coat. I hang it on the hall tree, too tired to bother with putting it away properly, at the moment. I stand there, feeling lost, staring at my boots. I need to come back to myself.

I crouch down and pull the knife from my boot, adding it to the collection in the pockets of my coat. While I'm down here, I untie my boots and kick them off as I straighten. I wander into the bedroom and get undressed. Standing there in the cold in just my bra and panties helps, and I shake myself. I tie up my hair and get in the shower. Hot showers are _definitely_ not something I had access to back then.

My mask runs down my face and washes away down the drain in a dark swirl, and I am not sorry to see the last of it. I've just been an accessory to international forgery. Oh, my gods, what am I doing? A man I do not actually know washes up on my beach, and I take him in with no questions. He is in my bed, he is chasing off my asshole ex, and I am breaking every law on the planet to keep him. Anything, anything to keep him.

And now I have to explain to him where he's come from. No. Not now. Oh, gods, why? I don't want to. But as soon as I turn on my computer, there's going to be the question: _Why is there a drawing of me on this thing?_ I can't avoid ebay forever. I have to list stuff, or I'm going to run out of capital... although... the bank account Stalker set up for Zev wasn't a tiny thing. Still, don't dare touch it for a while, anyway. Doesn't matter, oh, gods, it doesn't matter.

How do I tell him he's a character from a game? That his entire world is unreal? That he shouldn't even exist? That first night, I just glossed over it. I thought I was crazy. I thought he would disappear like seafoam on the tide. I thought he'd be like my driftwood, washed away and gone.

But he's here, sitting in my living room. I've called in an ancient favour and dug up old bones for him. I've got myself in deep, and I keep thinking I know him, I know him so well, but do I? Questions for another time. I stand under the water until it runs cold, then turn it off, finally, reluctantly. I stand and stare at myself in the mirror for a long time, finding myself at thirty, tumbling back down all the long years to the now, the woman who has grown from the girl, the survivor who has come to this house on the beach.

I wander into the bedroom, put on some pyjamas, and drift into the living room. The fire still burns and crackles, and I stand next to it for a moment, before putting the kettle back on. Chai tea, another comfort of my adulthood. The scent of the spices when I open the canister brings me further into the now, and I sigh. I find myself automatically setting up two mugs, and pull my hair down while I wait for the water to boil. Waist-length hair: another thing not possible on the street, where head lice are common enough that putting glue in your hair to stand it up in liberty spikes actually makes sense.

He is quiet, setting the papers aside as I bring him the mug. I mean to sit in the chair across from him, but he takes my hand in his, catching me firmly, clearly not wanting me to move away. I sit next to him on the couch, my knee against his, and his gaze is direct, disconcerting. I am pinned, and I realize with dread that The Conversation is coming. "So... _cara_, I have questions."

I turn the mug in my hands, looking down into the milky depths of my tea. We both have questions. So many of them have no answers, and I am not used to not having the answers, but he deserves nothing less than my complete respect; I must give him everything I can. "I bet. Ask me anything." He lets go of my hand and I wrap it around my mug, trying to conceal the shaking. I know what he's going to ask. How the hell am I going to explain this? I look at him over the edge of my cup, holding it up like a shield.

He takes a moment to think; I see the gears clicking in his head, trying to wrap his mind around all the things that I know have been a terrible shock. The only real question here in my mind, besides how to explain, is what he is going to ask first. Of course, he surprises me with where he begins. "You told him two days that we knew each other _cara_. Yet, it was two years that I knew you through the Blight."

This is not exactly a question, but I must respond. "Uh... Well, I did know you then, but... As I said, I was not in this body, while I was there. But you have only been _here_ for two days."

He gives me a sharp look. "You deflect my questions as though we were sparring. This is not a session with weapons. Be straightforward with me, _cara mia_, please."

Oh, my heart. I grimace. "I'm trying to be, I swear to you. Ask me something else."

He sighs, exasperated. "Lily, this is... no less difficult for me than it is you. How are we to manage this if we are not sharing the burden?" He fixes me with a stern eye, and I feel small as he squares himself. "My shoulders, they are broad, yes? There is _nothing_ I would not do for you, and your actions this night have proved that you will risk just as much for me." His hands slash through the air in denial, but in the next moment, reach toward me, almost in supplication, as he leans in close. Somehow this unexpected intimacy is more intimidating than his hardness. "Trust in me that I shall try to understand everything you say. I need no protecting, as I am a man, and will face all the obstacles that are before us; we will do it together. You _must_ tell me the _truth_, Lily; is this not the way between us?" He folds his arms over his chest again, and pulls back abruptly, leaving me suddenly feeling like an island.

I stare at him, kind of in shock, then bow my head. "I know. You're right, of course. I- I'm sorry." His worry, his trust – they break me. I have to explain, but how? Maybe I can ease him into it. I'll start with something... the closest thing I have to being personal. "Hang on... Let me get..." I bite my lip and rise, setting my mug aside; going to my desk, I open the drawer and pull out the journal. Since I can never trust my power situation, every series of my fic has its own hand-written book, and this one is Lily. I chose a journal that had an art nouveau pattern on the cover – a bunch of calla lilies. I turn, holding it to my chest. "This... will explain some of it."

Slowly, I reach out and lay it in his hands, terror clutching at my heart. I sit next to him, picking up my mug again, and watch nervously as he reads through it, flipping pages back and forth, sometimes skipping ahead, his hands smoothing across the paper as he goes. Finally becoming impatient, he goes to the last few pages, reading over them quickly. Here, he freezes, eyes wide. He begins to vibrate at a fine tremble; I only notice because he is usually so still, so in control.

He swallows a few times, closing the book and holding it tight over his heart, eyes closed, mouth tight. I'm going to shatter into a million pieces. This is so hard, so very hard. I close my eyes for a moment and pray: _Oh, gods, I swore I would not question you, so please, let us find a way through this_. I realize I'm clutching my mug so tightly that if it were any more fragile, it would have fractured in my hands. I force my arms to straighten, my fingers to uncurl, and set it on the table.

He bows his head, and I shake with the fear of this moment, the time when we have to face what I have been avoiding. I brush my fingertips against the back of his hand, my eyes burning. "I told you... It... This shouldn't be possible."

"I am... _not real_. I am... a _character_," he says, voice harsh. He is shutting down, I can see it. "Cara, how can this _be_?"

"I don't know," I choke. "But... but clearly you are real." He looks up at me, so much trust now completely absent from his eyes, and it breaks my heart. "Zev, I cannot explain the whims of the gods," I say quickly, desperately. "These are things I wish I had answers to; I wish I could tell you by what strange fate we should be here, now, together. We must be an amusement to them, that is all I can say with any certainty." I reach out again, but he recoils, and has gone cold on me.

"You mean to say that _you_ are an amusement for the gods, perhaps. Does that mean that _I_ am an amusement for _you_?"

I choke again, and my hand falls away; I can't look at him, the burning in my eyes is so intense, and I feel something scalding make a track down my cheek. "I don't... know how to explain, what to say. _You_ are no mere _amusement_. This is my _journal_. I wrote every word, I experienced every moment. Every laugh we shared, every kiss, every touch – I played them over and over again in my mind, in my dreams. I saw you when I slept, I craved you when I was awake, I ached that you were not here, so I wrote, so I could be with you. I came to you the only way I could."

I glance up and away again, because I cannot see his face through the tears. "All my time, even as I worked, you were with me, in my thoughts, in my _hands_." I look at them, helplessly, and fling an arm out to the side, pointing. "Go out to the shop, really _look_ at my work, and you will find the shape of _your tattoos_ in the lines of everything I made. I could not escape you... I didn't want to. I was never beyond your reach." I cover my mouth with my hand, hearing the words coming from some part of me that had been without conscious expression, only knowing them as they pour forth.

"So you _created_ me?" He waves a hand, grasping at intangibles. "And then you... _took_ yourself from me?" He maintains a white-knuckled death grip on my journal.

"I didn't create you. And, I... I don't know why I took myself from the story, it... it's what came. It was a decision that I regretted; as soon as it was done, I wished nothing more than to take it back." This is the complete truth. I had made myself literally sick with it; I had cried and cried, so much I threw up. I felt like someone had punched me in the soul; my chest ached, and every breath was agony, sharp and horrible. I had a bitter taste in my mouth that nothing could wash away. At the time I had thought myself pathetic for mourning him, but I cannot now be ashamed.

Now he softens, seeing my state, but the trust still has yet to return to his eyes. He touches my cheek anyway, stroking away the tears. "Perhaps you did it so that I could be here now?"

I shake my head. I still don't know why I did it, had no idea what would come from it, but I can answer one thing. "My agony was so devouring, the ache so complete, I was hollowed with grief... I was _sick_ with it... and then, suddenly... you were here, on my beach. Perhaps if my sorrow had not been such a crushing weight, you could not have come." I dare to look him in the eye again. "For a moment, the pain was washed away... but I became terrified that you wouldn't be here, if I slept. It would have made everything so much worse for having had you here, for having held you in my arms, and then to have you suddenly taken from me _again_, I would have shattered... never recovered. I would have been a ghost in my own life."

It almost looks as though there is a glimmer of understanding in those golden depths, but I don't even dare to hope. "We both would have been ghosts. I would have been no more, no matter whether you ceased your writings, your dreams and prayers. As surely as the sun rises, I would no longer take breath if such a game had been played upon us." He relinquishes his grip on my journal, setting it aside reverently, and takes my face in both hands. "It is good that I am still here, then. We do not have to be ghosts."

I swallow the hard knot in my throat and nod, my hands covering his. I turn my face to kiss the ball of his thumb, biting back the tears again. Just as I am relaxing, knowing the crisis averted, he continues, throwing another punch that strikes me just as hard as his first question. "There are so many things more that are unsaid yet between us."

I wince, but look back at him and nod; our hands drop to the couch between us, our fingers intertwine. "Go on."

He isn't pushing, but he will not allow me to let it lie. "If I am not _your_ creation, whose am I? Who would play such games with us?"

Zevran is uncomfortably close to the truth, but I can't tell him _that_. It would ruin _everything_, and any understanding he has would wash away, never to return. I bite my lip, and take the plunge. "It may be easier to... show you," I say, slowly. Crossing my fingers, hoping the power holds steady, I grab my laptop from where it has been sitting innocently on the desk, all this time. Luckily it boots – well... whether it's lucky actually remains to be seen. I know I can't show him the game... not yet, and maybe never, but my wallpaper pops up onto the screen. Hopefully this will lead to the right questions... and, if I am very, very lucky and very, very clever, the right answers, as well.

He reaches out, tracing it, then touches the name in the corner. "'Tahara'? Is this the name you use for your artwork? I didn't know you were skilled with a pen beyond the use of words, but for art as well?" He gives me a tiny smile. "You sew, you write, you carve, and this – beautiful artwork, as well. Is there anything you cannot do?"

I blush, and I fear my laugh has a manic edge to it. I shake my head. "No, no... I _can_ draw, it's true, and I'll show you some of it, sometime, but this one isn't my work. I'm not _that_ good."

Zevran's hold on my hand spasms. "You did not draw this? But who else could know what we look like, to make such accurate likenesses?"

Taking a deep breath, I flail around for a place to begin. "Thedas is a world _many_ travel to."

"I gathered as much," he says, impatiently, more than a little sardonic, and I wince.

"I said that before, I know... just... bear with me, here. I'm trying to explain, trying to find a place to begin. Just as I did a couple of nights ago, I want to choose my words carefully, so that I make no mistakes." I turn my hand, lacing my fingers between his. He nods, and I take another breath before continuing. "So... Thedas is a world many travel to, and many... have stories there. They live there for a time, and meet many people, just as I met you there. But... it is... like..." I struggle with it, chewing my lip. Where do I go from here? I don't want to say 'game', dear gods, that word is to be avoided like the plague. Alternate realities... that's the key. "These others who go, they can take the same... position, in time and place. I became Lily Mahariel, and you knew me there, but when I left, someone else went. They lived there during the same time, taking the niche that I had occupied."

This is as simply as I can explain it without telling him that he comes from a game. I want no hint of any idea that someone 'played' with him. In his world, Zevran suffered enough games to last _many_ lifetimes; his past makes mine look like a cakewalk. He is _no one's_ toy.

"So, you are saying that right now, as we speak, someone is reliving the Blight?" he asks, his eyes going wide with horror.

"Yes," I say sadly, latching on to that. "Unfortunately, that is it, exactly. Someone else is living through the Blight, someone else is a Warden, someone else will hopefully slay the Archdemon."

"Someone else will meet me, as well?" He connects the dots so easily; his intelligence is dangerously sexy to me. Few have been those who could outclass me, but I suspect – no, I'm _pretty sure_ – he can. There's no hiding from the sharpness of his mind.

I nod. "Another you – a you who has only begun to set out from Antiva, to fulfil the contract on the Grey Wardens. Perhaps you will succeed in killing them, perhaps they will befriend you, perhaps other things will happen, perhaps _they_ may kill _you_, perhaps you will follow them, only to elect to go with Taliesen, later... there are so many variables, so many things change depending on how each person will choose to live their life. They may never live to see the Archdemon in the first place. They may be completely evil and drag the entire realm into darkness. I don't know."

"Mph, this sounds like a game for sport, a way for others to live in Thedas, to force the people who reside there to re-experience the pain of the Blight repeatedly."

I squeak. Gods, this man is too perceptive for my own damned good. "A... game?" I stutter, but forcibly collect myself. Stay on track, here. "That's just it, though: the people of Thedas only experience it once. There's no memory of other times the story is told. Every time it happens, it is happening for the first time, for all of them."

"So, it is a story that may be retold many times, so that many of your world may experience it, yet it only happens once for us?" he sums up.

I nod. "Yes. I was not the first to go, and I will not be the last, but you do not remember them, because you never met them; it only happened once, for you, for me."

"What then of this?" he asks, tapping my monitor and the drawing there. "This person, this 'Tahara'. She knows of me, but also knows of you?"

This is getting easier as his grasp on the situation increases. "Well... Remember how I told you about the world marketplace where I sell my work?" He nods. "Okay, well, the marketplace is not the only thing that happens in that way. There are libraries, schools, communities of people, forums for discourse and ways to send letters, among many, many other things. I am part of a community of people who have gathered to tell the stories of our experiences in Thedas. We write or draw, and share what we know, what we have learned."

"So a person you know drew this? As a way for you to be able to keep me close to you?"

I nod. "Yes, precisely," I say, relieved to at least have this much explained clearly.

"That is a good friend then, to gift you a way to hold me close," he says, his voice warming at last. He is slowly relaxing, and the terrible clutching fist around my heart is easing up, as he does.

"Yes, she really is."

"I shall have to thank her somehow. Will you convey my thanks?"

My eyes go wide. "Uh... you know what? We should just... send her a photograph of us. Her artwork is part of what made it possible for us to be here together."

"Then she is a very good friend, and I wish her much joy – as much joy as she has brought us." He is decisive, raising my hand up to place a small kiss across the back of it, and I know everything will be all right now. I let out a breath I didn't realize I have been holding.

This conversation, as hellish as it was for me, and for him, has been good for us, and it didn't go as badly as I thought it would. He was right to force the issue, even as late as it is, to _make_ me talk to him about it. It has been weighing on me so heavily, and I feel like now, maybe I can breathe.

I am still unsteady, still unsure of us, a little, but I really need to be in his arms. "Zev?"

"Hmm?" He has been staring at the picture Tahara drew, rubbing his thumb absently over our entwined fingers.

"It's late now... Um... is there anything else you want to ask me?" I'm hoping there isn't.

He sighs, then gives me a smile. "Of course, but it shall keep until after we have rested."

Utterly relieved, I shut down my laptop. Once I'm finished, Zevran takes both my hands, pulling me to my feet, and enfolds me in his arms, holding me tight to him; I cling, so very grateful to have navigated this minefield safely. Emotional conversations with him have always been fraught with peril. It is comforting, in a twisted way, that this has not changed, for I know that I stand a very good chance of continuing to be able to communicate effectively with him. I managed to go through all the canon conversations without ever getting a negative response, only finding out much later that things have the potential to go disastrously wrong, very easily. I didn't dare to hope, could barely bring myself to think of it, of how it could all explode in my face. Right here, right now, smelling his skin, his breath in my hair, and his strength wrapped around me, my world is right.

With gentle urgings he guides us to our room – and it _is_ 'ours'; I can't think of it being just _mine_ any more – and strips me of my pyjamas. The last barriers fall away, and I am naked under his gaze, once more. The trust I had thought fled is back, and he is looking at me in that way of his that tells me I am the centre of his everything. It is a better way of saying he loves me than any words could ever be.

Even as he undresses himself, I can't see where he hides his knives, no matter how closely I watch. I wonder if I'll ever figure it out. Maybe I will ask him about it sometime, but not now; we've had enough questions for one night. _I've_ had enough for a lifetime. As soon as he is under the covers I roll into him, wrapping myself around him, a horrible weight lifting from my heart. "Zev, I'm sorry I hid these things from you. I never meant to be dishonest."

He kisses my forehead as he says, "Tch, it is not good... true, but I understand. These are unbelievable things, yet we have proof of them here that cannot be ignored. I shall forgive you, _cara mia_, if you promise to not hide so from me again." Zevran tugs on my chin, bidding me to look up at him. "It is no good if we keep things from each other; we will be unable to protect and care for one another if we don't know what we must guard against."

He has a point. A very _good_ point. If he had found out any of this on his own, he would have pushed me away, leaving him lost in this unfamiliar world without anyone he knew to lean on. Zevran is a survivor, but only against the sorts of straightforward enemies that don't hide behind walls of information, documents, taxes, surveillance. He would unknowingly – too easily! – commit some crime and be hauled away for it. Once they found out that not only was he not documented, but he wasn't even human? I shudder to think. Oh, gods, what _horrible things_ would happen to him! I shy away from it, clinging tighter.

"You're right, you're right. I'm so sorry." I shake my head, burying my face in his shoulder, and take another breath. "I trust you so completely, and I want you to be able to be certain that you can trust me, that we will face these things together, shoulder to shoulder, as we have always been. I swear to you, I will _always_ give you the truth... as much as I know it to be." I lift my face to blink up at him, my fingertips wandering across his chest.

Now he kisses me, softly, sweetly, at last, and I am finally at peace. "_Va bene, dolcezza_. It is enough."


	9. Liberty

A peaceful week passes as Zev and I fall into a routine. He is always up at the crack of dawn, no matter how late we go to bed, so he takes over making breakfast. Spoiled rotten, that's what I am. Every morning, coffee and food, as soon as I can haul my stumbling self into the living room, he's there, pressing a cup into my hands. He always smells of wind and the sea in the morning, and I soon discover it is because he has been doing his blades practice and before I wake up.

I've never been a morning person, not by a long shot, and I'm usually barely functional before noon, but with him here, I find myself gaining about three hours on the day, because I don't have to fumble my way through the morning in a horrible haze of sleep-fog; there's just breakfast. Once I can see straight, we go outside, and he helps me haul stuff around in the shop – get stuff packed up for shipping, bring in new wood, things like that – for a couple of hours. He runs his hands over things sometimes, tracing certain curves, and I will see him touch his chest, or his cheek, realizing that I wasn't exaggerating. As promised, packages keep arriving, every couple of days.

After I've got my stuff situated, we make lunch together, and then I head outside while he raids my bookshelf. I got the habit of collecting text books from my grandparents, which is turning out to be a good thing, because I've got a bookcase that contains a fair approximation of a college education, all by itself. History, science, art, anthropology, literature, politics, geography, anatomy and physiology, biology, algebra... I even have Spanish and Latin language books. He sits there, all afternoon, reading and making notes. He is voracious, and it's all I can do to keep up with him. Some of this stuff I haven't read in years, and I can't answer all the questions he has, but we end up talking for hours, late into the night.

His handwriting is beautiful. He is disconcerted when I comment on it, and eventually tells me that he learned many forms of writing and calligraphy during his time amongst the Crows. I am surprised, until he reminds me that forgery is a very handy skill amongst those involved in political intrigue. He fills all of my spare composition books with notes, observations, questions, conclusions... and as we discuss these things, it becomes necessary for me to start explaining paradigm definers and some of our idioms. So we move into the realms of fiction and pop culture. He has an aversion to the fantasy stuff, shifting away from it, and I can see why. Maybe in time. I don't have enough of that kind of reference on my shelves, so we make a trip out to Half Priced Books to pick some stuff up.

He scours the place, not sparing any section; we are there for hours. I laugh as he piles a couple of horrible romance novels in the cart, on top of Plato and Carl Sagan. "Seriously?"

He grins up at me. "Oh yes, _cara mia_, _all_ forms of education are important, wouldn't you agree?" I laugh, but he makes me blush.

We leave the place with a box full of books; I had to stop him when he said he wanted to get a second basket. "Zev, Zev, we can always come back, I swear to you; these things will still be here. There are thousands of copies of the same book, and if we can't find one in particular that you need, we can get it online. There's enough here to keep you busy for months." Reluctantly, he allows me to pry him out of the store, but we don't escape cheaply, half-priced though they may be.

When Zev has been here for five days, I realize my cat is missing. I call for her, but she doesn't come. It's not uncommon for her to wander off for a while – hence her name: "Wanderer" – but she's never been gone for more than a couple of days. It is Tuesday night when I start calling for her.

Thursday at lunch, I am watching him just sitting there, reading over his notes, and I suddenly feel bad that he is stuck in the house with me. "So, hey, um... are you bored with all this, just, you know, sitting around and reading, helping me in the shop? I mean, it's a pretty... uh... simple life."

He raises his eyebrow at me. "It is relaxing," he says, simply.

"Well, if you ever do get bored with it, I think that we could probably get you a job at the studio doing, like, a self-defence thingy... tons of people like to do that..."

He looks at me, surprised. "You wish me to take a job?"

I wave my hands in negation. "No-no! No I mean, I just – look, I don't want you to be bored, feel trapped, you know, feel like you're only dependent on me. I _like_ having you around. It... You make me feel safe."

He shakes his head and smiles. "_Cara_, when have I ever had the luxury to simply sit, relax and enjoy life?" I smile back and bow my head, conceding the point. "Besides," he continues, his tone becoming dismissive, "If I were to take a position somewhere, what would _you_ do? Would you sit and watch me work?"

I blink. "Uh... no... I'd be here, in my shop."

He gives me a sharp look, and it's almost like a slap in the face. "No, you most certainly would not!" he snaps, and I sit back a little bit. He softens immediately, but the stern look does not leave his face, and his voice still holds an edge to it. "I am not leaving you unprotected in case that... that... _stronzo _returns, and tries to hurt you again."

I nod and look down, chastened. I'm not used to someone being protective of me, and it makes me blush. "Okay," I say, softly, then peek up at him through my hair. "Thank you."

He snorts, but his humour is returning. "I said I would protect you, _cara_. This oath does not expire simply because we have begun again."

Friday, I've become very worried about Wanderer, so I print up a few flyers and post them around town, in coffee shops and the grocery stores, but nothing comes of it.

Sunday night, I come in from the shop, and Zev is draped over the end of the couch, reading what turns out to be a horribly trashy romance novel, and snorting with barely-repressed laughter.

"What's funny?"

"It seems that no matter where one goes, these things–" he gestures with the book, "–are universal."

"What do you mean?" I ask, his mirth bringing out a smile in me.

"Completely ridiculous. Unrealistic. Here," he points. "'Mossy grotto'," he scoffs, and I cover my mouth, giggling in disbelief. He swings his legs down, making room for me on the couch.

"Are you serious?" I laugh, sitting down next to him. "That's awful."

He snorts in agreement. "If a woman came to me with a 'mossy grotto', I would tell her to take a bath first – _if_ I didn't simply walk away in a fit of good judgement." I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. "Oh! And this–" he says, pointing to another section and turning the book toward me "–'quivering man-flesh'? Really?"

I laugh. "Oh– Oh my god–" He laughs too, dropping an arm around my shoulders.

"Is this supposed to be arousing to women?" he asks, gesturing with the book again. He looks down at me, giving me seductive eyes. He drops his voice low, breathing in my ear. "Do you want me to talk to you about my 'quivering man-flesh'?"

"Augh-ha! Ack! No! That's disgusting!" I laugh, pushing on his shoulder.

He leans in closer, reading from the book. "Oh, _cara_, but listen, it is so _seductive_: '...and her round, bountiful, spherical globes bounced and swayed in tune to the song of his quivering man-flesh'," he purrs, putting emphasis on all the descriptive words, and I curl up, holding my stomach.

"No!" I gasp, laughing harder. "Oh gods, no!"

"Good, because I would seriously question your state of mind," he says in his normal voice, leaning back and laughing some more. I am shaking with giggles and wiping tears from my eyes when I realize that he's gone still, and is frowning toward the door.

"Z–?" He puts a hand over my mouth and I fall silent as he slips off the couch, prowling toward the door on silent feet. I am suddenly alarmed. The curtains are open, and I look outside in time to see Tommy storm up onto the porch. He has a cat-carrier in his hand. Wanderer! That bastard! He's furious, and I realize he must have been able to see us together, happy, when he pulled up.

Tommy slams the door open just as Zev reaches it, and he catches the door before it hits the wall, his face stony. I'm momentarily frozen to the couch as Tommy's enraged gaze swings from Zev to me. "What the fuck are you doing with my cat?"

His mouth twists. "_Our_ cat, Lily. Remember? I was there when _we_ got her." He glances at Zev, still standing in front of him, and dismisses him again. Apparently he's forgotten how Zev put him down last time he was here... or maybe he's convinced himself that now he's ready for it, it couldn't happen again. That would be just typical. "So I do something nice for you: I took her to the vet and took care of her, for you, and now I'm bringing her home, and I find that this guy is still in our house? You're _still_ cheating on me? Even after we talked about this last weekend? This little fling of yours has to _end_, Lily, and since you can't seem to do it, I will."

I am so incredulous, I can't even respond, at first. 'Talk'? Does he mean the part where he yelled at me, or the part where Zev shoved his face in the sand and showed him the sharp edge of a knife?

Zev arches an eyebrow, and Tommy looks down at him. "You need to leave," Tommy says to him. "This is my house; you can't just move in here. Lily might be a little confused right now, but we've had rough times before. You don't understand what you're walking into; Lily has trouble with straying, but we always get through it. You're trying to get in the middle of us, and it's not going to work." He is gesturing with the cage, and Wanderer is freaking out, crying, sliding around in the back of it.

"Put her down!" I say, suddenly finding my voice.

This is the part where all my other boyfriends have run for the hills, but Zev simply smiles. He spreads his hands, letting go of the door, and takes a few steps backward, toward the fireplace. "Oh? I rather think that the choice of who shares her life is Lily's, not yours." Tommy's fury against Zev's sardonic calm looks like nothing so much as a wave crashing impotently against a cliff. Tommy advances on Zev, which I'm sure was Zev's intent, and I rush forward, trying to take Wanderer's cage. Everything happens so quickly then. Only a matter of seconds pass.

Tommy sees me coming in from the side and swings at me with Wanderer's cage. I grab it with both arms, and hang on tight as the momentum sends me crashing to the floor in front of the fireplace. I land heavily and awkwardly against the side of the cage and the edge of the hearth, smashing my ribs, ooh, the old broken one, and banging my head on the bricks. Pain flares so hotly, I can't help but cry out at it. The case creaks, my ribs creak, but both stay steady. My head pounds, bringing tears to my eyes, but I lean down and peer in the bars to check on my cat. Wanderer looks a little worse for wear, but she seems to be okay, giving me eyes as big as saucers. "Don't worry, baby, shhh, it's okay," I croon, clutching at my side as a wave of vertigo sweeps over me. I'm too prone to concussions these days.

I look up, and Tommy is towering over Zev, shouting at him, but Zev is very carefully keeping himself between me and Tommy. "I'm telling you, this is not your house; I don't care what she seems to think. You don't belong here. She'll never be anyone else's but mine; no matter who she ends up straying with, she always comes back to me. It's only a matter of time before she gets tired of you and comes back to me. I'm the only one she's ever really loved, whatever she tells you; she says that to all of them, but who is the one still here? Me. So get out, before I have to _put_ you out."

There is a moment of silence as Zev sizes him up. "You know, your stupidity truly is remarkable." There is another moment of silence, as Tommy begins to boil over. Zev casually reaches behind him as the big idiot finally explodes, and grabs the poker from the fireplace. As Tommy bears down on him, at the last second, he whips it forward in a lunge, twisting the make-do weapon so that the momentum of the charge provides half the driving force that, combined with the strength of Zev's arm, causes the poker to punch through Tommy's abdomen at an angle. He lumbers forward, unable to stop, and my deadly beautiful assassin steps in, driving the poker even further into Tommy's body, until the tip breaks free of the skin between clavicle and collarbone. He steps to the side as the blood pours down, avoiding getting anything on himself.

I'm stunned. Street violence is fast, yeah, but it's also desperate and gritty – no finesse. This was calm calculation, and Zev simply looks up into Tommy's shocked face and cocks his head. Tommy staggers, coughs, and blood comes out of his mouth. Zev slips behind him and catches him by the shoulders, laying him swiftly down on the floor so that Tommy doesn't hit the coffee table. Couldn't have that; all the books are there. I almost laugh, but then I realize that might be a little hysterical.

My gaze falls toward the floor, and alights on Tommy. Time slows down as I am locked into his pleading eyes in horror; he gasps for air, his bloody mouth open. In the next instant, Zev crouches between us, blocking my view; reaching back, he pushes my head down, so I can't see what's going on. "Do not look, _dolcezza_," he says, and I put my hand over his, keeping it in my hair, clinging to him as I hear a horrible squelching, rattling sound, rhythmic at first, but then going irregular, and finally shuddering to a halt.

After a few moments of silence, Zev says, very quietly, "Close your eyes," and I obey. He disentangles my hands from Wanderer's carrier and pulls me to my feet. I am trembling, I can't help it. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me through the living room and into the kitchen, then puts the phone in my hand. "Call your friend, the guard, _cara_," he says gently.

My hands are shaking, and I have to tell him the number so he can press the buttons for me, but I make the call. Zev pulls me into his chest once I've got the phone pressed to my ear, and I listen to his heartbeat as the ringing pulses in my other ear. "Porter," he says, and the familiar voice of my high-school friend brings tears to my eyes.

"J– Jack?" My voice is so tiny, so strained. Is this really me? I feel so dizzy.

"Lily? Are you okay? What's going on?"

"H– he–" My mouth is opening and closing like a fish, and I can't seem to make it work properly.

Zev leans in close and says, "You must come, Jack."

"Call 911," he says, and hangs up.

I make the second call. "911, what's your emergency?"

"My– My ex– attacked me– dead–" I stutter, and she cuts me off, asking me for my location, then keeps me talking, asking me simple questions like my name. My mind is not working properly; the ocean is too loud. The operator lets me get off the phone when we hear the sirens. Zev keeps my head down, won't let me look around, and moves with me outside, pulling me along with my face buried in his shoulder. We sit down on the railing together and wait; Zev only leaves my side for a moment, to fetch Wanderer and bring her out of the house, and only then because I practically beg him to. Her mournful, terrified cries, I cannot stand them, and so he dashes back in and brings her out to us. Once she can see me, she stops trembling, and so do I. Jack is the first person to arrive, and he quickly joins us, before there are further witnesses.

He crouches on the porch in front of us so he can get a good look at my face, and then he looks angry. I touch my forehead self-consciously. Zev is watching him, and he says, "The cat was leverage for him to get his hands on her again. He came in, unbidden, and attacked her. The fireplace poker is rather neatly sheathed." I look up in time to see them exchange a look, one where Zev calmly acknowledges that he's taken care of the problem, and Jack agrees that it was the best solution.

Jack flips open a notebook and begins to write. "Okay, what happened?"

I stare at him. My lips are numb. "We were laughing," I whisper, horrified at how quickly things had gone, how fast laughing over a bad romance novel had turned into a dead body. Zev pulls me closer into his side, and Jack's face softens with worry. He and Zev trade glances again, and Zev drops another kiss onto the back of my head.

Jack rests his hand on top of one of mine. "Hey, I know it's a lot to take in, honey, but everything really is going to be okay. It's better this way; there's no one to testify against you. Remember when Mrs. Thorsen had that break-in last year?" I nod. "She left a broken glass in the kitchen sink. When that punk climbed in through the window, he cut himself. He was breaking and entering, but he successfully sued her for negligence." He shakes his head. "No, state law says you were defending your home; you'll be fine."

I nod, and open my mouth, but nothing comes out. All I can see is Tommy, standing in the doorway, screaming at me; Wanderer's frightened eyes; I hear that wet gurgling sound again, and suddenly scrabble at Zevran, trying to crawl further into his arms. I close my eyes tightly and bury my face in his neck.

Zev answers for us. "It hasn't been half an hour. I should have heard him sooner, but we were laughing, and I was inattentive." I can hear the self-reproach in his voice, and shake my head. This is not Zev's fault, not by a long shot. "He slammed open the door, began yelling at her that she was to end her 'fling' with me, that this is his house, that she is simply confused and has no true care of me. I... succeeded in wresting the cage from his hands. When he attacked Lily, she gutted him with the poker from the fireplace."

Jack nods. "How did she get the knot on her head then?"

"He knocked her down," Zev says, calmly.

"Where were you during all this?"

"Holding the cat. It all happened rather quickly."

"What about the fingerprints on the poker?"

Zev just arches an eyebrow and says, "I bank the fire often... as does Lily."

Jack and Zev have another moment where they both acknowledge that this is going to be the official story, and then an ambulance pulls up. The paramedics check me over for concussion and broken ribs, and conclude that, though I may have a headache, I should be fine. No broken bones, no broken head. A team of investigators stop in and take a million pictures.

The Medical Examiner is in and out in a matter of minutes, and then a black body bag is leaving my front door. I turn away and hide in Zev's shirt again. The detective comes along after a while, and talks to Jack; more flashbulbs in my living room strobe the windows. Jack passes on my statement to the detective, but he is unable to prevent her from asking me any questions.

"Ms. Maxwell, I'm Detective Maas. I know you have had a difficult evening, but if you could just answer a few questions for me, I would really appreciate it."

I nod, and she looks down at her notes. "You told Porter that this is self-defence, and that the deceased knocked you down, so that you struck your head on the hearth. How is it, then, that the body was lying between the coffee table and the couch, several feet from the fire place?"

"He turned," I say, my mouth still not working right. "He was going to go after Zev. I stood up, got the poker... I said, 'hey', and he turned back to me. He was going to kill me, so I... I just held it up, and..." The gurgle, the horrible gurgle. I grab Zev's hand again, and don't realize how hard I am holding to it until I hear him hiss through his teeth. I look down quickly and see my knuckles white. I loosen my grip immediately, and he flips his hand over, so that I can bear down on it without hurting him, lacing his fingers through mine again.

"Just one more question. How did he fall?"

I blink. "I don't know. Maybe he was going to try and run. He turned away, but he didn't... couldn't..." I feel a scream clawing at my throat, and clam up. The detective is sympathetic.

"All right, it's okay. This looks exactly like what you say: self-defence. This man is not registered to this address, you've got a previous restraining order on record, and with all the record of DV calls from here, I think it's pretty clear what happened. I'm not going to bring you in; I think you've had enough trauma for one night." She rises and goes back to Jack, and then she is leaving.

Jack shoos everyone off my property, then asks me if I would like to stay in town at a motel or something for a few nights. I look at him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him take a step back in surprise. "No," I say, vehement. "He's been invading my house for years, trying to take over my space. I'll be damned if I'm going to let him chase me out of it now." Zev hugs me closer, and I take comfort and strength from his presence. Jack nods.

"All right, well, if you change your mind, or if you need anything, give me a call." I nod, and Jack leaves, as well, but not without another backward glance for Zev, another moment of understanding between them.

Zev picks up Wanderer and we go back into the house. He won't let me look toward the fireplace, keeping my head tucked under his chin as he guides me toward the back of the house. "Lily, shut the door, and get in the shower. If you run out of hot water, get in the bed. I will return to you shortly." He kisses me softly, stroking the hair from my face, and I grab onto his shirt, suddenly terrified that he is not going to be next to me. "Shhh... I will not be long, _cara mia_, trust me. Just get into the shower." Gently, he peels my fingers from his clothing and kisses them, holding them tightly in his own. His eyes are steady, and I take a deep breath.

I let Wanderer out of her carrier and cuddle her, but she's too freaked out for much of that, so, after a few experimental licks of my cheek, she wriggles free and hides under the bed. I quickly ditch my clothing, the room still fairly cold, even though the house has been open for hours now, and race for the shower. I turn it on, hot as it will go, and push my face under the spray. I cannot erase the sound, the terrible rattling, squelching sound. My gods, all the things I've heard in my life, all the things I've seen, the things I've done, some of the things that have happened to people at my own hands, and this one sound will not leave my head.

I curl up on the floor of the shower and put my head on my knees, letting the water fall on me, and try to focus on the now. I try to hear only what is present, to see only what I have, let my mind go blank. He is right; it is not long before he returns to me; finding me in the bottom of the tub, he strips down and joins me. He hauls me to my feet, and I cling to him, shaking despite the heat of the water turning both of us pinker. He strokes my hair whispering to me. "Shhh... It is over... Never again; you are free, _dolcezza mia_, you are free."

"Oh gods, oh gods," I whimper, over and over again. It's not what he did. It's not that Tommy's dead. It's not the sound, the mess, the smell of blood, the thud on the floor, the look on their faces, or the bruises I've been given. It's the simple fact: I'll never have to look at him again. I'll never see him again. He'll never put his hands on me again. Never his voice, his violence, the stink of him, watching for his car, worrying about running into him in the store, wondering when he would turn up again and try to hurt me, try to take control of my life again.

I weep not with despair nor fear, not with agony nor sorrow, not with horror nor anguish, but with simple _relief_ from the sudden release of the shackles that have chained me to a life I thought I would never escape. 

As the water runs cold over us, he turns it off, and helps me out of the shower. He wrings out my hair for me, winding it up tightly in some kind of complicated coil that stays when he lets go of it. I cannot bring myself to uncover my face, my tears falling through my fingers and onto the bathroom floor. At last he tugs them away, makes me look at him, lifting my chin. His eyes are very serious, and he rests his hands upon my shoulders, his voice thick when he speaks. "_Dolcezza_, I am sorry that you had to see that side of me. If I could have spared you that, I would have."

I open my mouth to respond, but what can I say? He thinks this is something I have found abhorrent about him, and the realization takes my breath away. I shake my head, shocked, my hand going to his cheek. "No," I whisper, and throw myself into his arms. He holds me tightly, and I realize that he had been actually worried, for a moment. "I was a slave to his whims; there was no escaping him, not ever, but you've given me that. You've cut the fetters, released my bonds, Zev, you've given me back my life." I cling to him, burying my face in his shoulder. "Thank you," I sob, quietly, and press a kiss to his neck.

"Ohh... _cara_..." he whispers back, running his hands down my back. "Come to bed, then, _amora_, and I will kiss away all of your tears... and tomorrow, they will be replaced with smiles."


	10. The Second Conversation

Four months pass by in a blur while I reel from the sudden shift in my paradigm. I get a lawyer, but really, all I have to do is file some paperwork. I append a copy of my old restraining order to my statement, Zev puts in a statement that carries unexpected weight due to his military status, and Jack writes this horribly eloquent statement about what he witnessed the night I went to the hospital. I can barely read it; there are so many things I said, so many things I did that I didn't even know about. Jack's actions on my behalf, both nights there was an ambulance at my house, endeared him to my assassin, and as we meet with him several times over the time it takes to settle things, they strike up an easy friendship, much to my surprise.

I throw myself into my work, creating like a fiend. There are nights when Zev has to come out to the shop and literally drag me away from my tools. My hands, they just won't stop. The night I actually say this to him, we are climbing the steps to the porch, and he turns, taking me by the shoulders, so he can catch my eyes. He always makes me look him in the eye when he's talking to me, and this is a really hard thing for me to do. I've spent too many years training myself to keep my eyes down so as to minimize my chances of getting my ass kicked. But it is good for me, and I feel so much safer, every time. It's like he's deprogramming me. Maybe he is.

"_Cara_, that is what I am here for. There are other ways to occupy your hands." He says things like this to me, things that should be obvious, but that I never really apprehended before, and suddenly problems just unravel. I love him for this, so much. We barely make it inside.

He spends most of his time engaged of one of four activities: helping me prowl the beach, reading everything he can get his hands on, going places with Jack, and sparring at the dojo, now that he's found it. I can't resist staying, sometimes. He is incredible when he's on his own, but against an actual opponent, he is grace personified. Much to my surprise, I've actually seen the sensei there hand Zev his ass a couple of times; after the second time I witness it, I am banned from coming.

"You are too much of a distraction," he tells me, as we leave. I crawl into the truck and unlock his door.

"How can you protect me if I distract you from fighting?" I mean, really, how does this even make sense? Ah, but of course, there's always a reason for the things he does.

He looks at me very seriously and says, "You cannot be there, because I am always trying to compensate for your presence, wanting to adjust myself to a better position relative to protecting you. I spend too much time with warring instincts, and miss my mark for trying to dance too much." He growls under his breath, aggravated, and I duck my head.

"So noted. I'll... I'll just wait out here, then."

He grimaces and waves a hand dismissively as I pull out of the parking lot. "No, no, _va bene, cara_, you are right. It is a wound to my pride. I should not be so easily distracted." He reaches over and covers my fingers where they rest on the gear shift, and I smile. At home, we make lunch, and then I head out to work while he sits down with a book on the Renaissance.

Several hours later, he comes into my shop, and there is an air of dark disquiet around him that I had thought we were long since past. My hands still, the sand paper coming to a rasping halt, and I stand up. I set the block down and dust off my gloves, then drop them on the table so I can pull my mask off. "Zev?" I prompt, but he does not look up. His arms are crossed, his face turned away, just standing there, leaning against the door. It does not bode well that he is not talking, and it's even worse that he won't look at me. "Er... what happened?"

He takes an inordinate amount of time to respond, his hands gripping opposite elbows, lips turned down in a not-quite frown. "I was looking through the bookshelves and the CD stacks. I was bored."

I tilt my head, and move towards him, but he flinches away, and I step back again, now truly worried. "Tell me what's wrong. I can't imagine anything that you'd find– Oh." I stop short. In the ordered rows of cases, there are also my games. Video games.

"A game."

The bottom drops out of my stomach. "You found the disc."

"A _game, cara._" His voice is so accusatory, it makes me sick with immediate self-loathing. He pushes away from the door frame, coming toward me. "Not a story. A _game_." There are angry lines around his mouth and eyes, and I quail. I am _not_ afraid of him; no, not at all. He would never harm me; _never_. I _know_ this. But there is a _world of difference_ between 'hurt' and 'harm', and it would be as easy as a sneer to hurt me down to the very core.

I swallow. "It _started_ as a story. People wrote a story, and made it into a game, so that other people could live in the story. I... didn't want to tell you that it was... a game... too." I drop my gaze. This is what I get for trying to protect him. Hadn't he _said_? He is a man; he needs no protecting. _Fuck._

Now he looks at me, his gaze snapping up to mine like a whip lash, and I recoil from the fire in his eyes. "And _why not_?" he snaps. "Because you think I could not handle it? Could not come to grips with it?" He shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. "How is it so different, eh? It has gone from a story that you had written, to a story that many lived in, and then it was a story that was different for everyone. And now I find that it is a _game_."

"No! No, gods, I think you could handle just about anything!" I growl at myself, irritated, frustrated. Of course it was going to come out, sooner or later; I thought, at the time, that we would talk about it later, and then... later just sort of... never came. I should have known better than to even try and hide this. I just... Gods, I'm stupid. I hang my head. "It's because I didn't want you to think less of me for it. I didn't want you to think that I had used you... that you were unimportant."

Zev rubs his temples with one hand, the other gesturing as he paces. "I am used to being used, _cara,_ but with you, and my memories of you – I _wasn't_ used. Even if they were not real, even if I was not real to start with." He sighs, sounding disgusted. "What I think _less_ of you for is that you chose not to trust me."

This is like being kicked in the stomach; my knees give way and I sit down, abruptly. Just lucky for me there is a stool behind me. My lips are numb, and I stare at him, struck dumb for a minute. Finally, I force myself to speak. "My fear is... _so great_... It gets the better of me, sometimes." I pass a hand over my face, my shoulders dropping, and look out the window toward the sea. The tide is so far out, a long expanse of sand stretches on away toward the thin white line of the breakers. The setting sun peeks out from under the layer of clouds, just at the horizon, painting the water orange and fuchsia.

My voice is quiet when I continue. "It is not lack of faith in you, but in my own worth, really. It's been eight years of hell, followed by four months of this... sudden safety." I toss my hands up, helplessly. "I am... still lost. Still waiting for him to come and hurt me, still terrified that he could take everything. I keep waiting for someone to come and take this away from me, tell me there's been some mistake." I bow my head.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "I continue to forget it has not been two years for you. However, _cara mia_, you have my earring, do you not? It is not a thing I give lightly, and no one could part me from you without me being dead and rotting." He barks a short laugh. "I looked it up, though. So, apparently, with the right words, I do give it away easily!" There is a manic edge to his laughter, shoulders shaking.

I watch this sudden change with alarm. "No! Are you kidding me? You didn't have a problem with the idea of a casual relationship, yeah, okay. I've been there myself. After a... thing like that..." I swallow and look away, then clear my throat. "Anyway, I know very well what kind of mindset comes after that. Who gives a shit, right? I wasn't interested in 'casual', so I didn't take you up on it. Others, meeting other versions of you, have.

"I took the time to talk to you, to try and unravel you, because I cared. I turned down Alistair, even though he was sweet, because I was more interested in you. I did these things _because it is my way_. There is nothing calculated about us; things were different then. So few people had been to Thedas; I didn't know what I was getting into. I went in completely blind... Not like others, who look up the information, find out how to manipulate events to their own ends.

"No. I spoke to you, and I treated you like a person, because you _are_ one. It was not _easy_ to get to know you; you _know_ it wasn't easy. Every time I opened my mouth, I wondered if I was going to say something stupid, and I still kind of feel that way sometimes. And so what you've got here, is the Mahariel with the Maxwell behind her. I have all those issues and more. I could tell there was something going on with you, because I've been there. I wanted to know what happened, and in the end you told me, and I realized how much you and I are alike, in certain things."

He holds up a hand, forestalling me. "I understand, far more intimately than you shall ever imagine – which is as it should be – the situations you come from."

I look back out the window. The sky is turning indigo, the sun reduced to a red line on the horizon. "I worried about paradox. If you picked it up, if you looked at it, would it somehow... do something to you?"

He snorts, scoffs, and I give him a sharp look. "Forces beyond our control put us here together. I didn't want to look at that too closely; I didn't have the guts to even touch it." I swallow. "Look, there's a theory that all places we think we invent are actually real places. They say that we travel when we dream, and we go to other worlds, places like where you come from, and have experiences there. We bring these tales back to our world as fiction, in all its forms. I've never seen anything solid to prove this theory... until you. You're the only person I know of to ever show up from a place that was supposedly 'not real'. I mean, there's always stories, but..." I sigh. "There are stories about everything."

"As for that," I say, gesturing toward the house, the games, "My best guess is that he's an approximation. Gaider must have dreamed himself to Thedas, and met you there, then tried to recreate you here. He was close enough that I was able to know you, anyway, and I must have known you so well as to call you all the way here." I rub my face again.

"I know, that's a lot of 'perhaps' statements. I am grasping at straws here. String theory might explain it, I don't know. There are so many things in this world that cannot be seen, cannot be explained." I shrug, helplessly. "Something strange and cosmic happens to me, and I am terrified of losing it. I didn't want to even think about it too hard, in case it was like a soap bubble singularity, and my probing at it makes it just..." I hold my hand up, all my fingertips pressed together, and then spread my fingers out suddenly, holding nothing but air. "Pff. Disappear. End of my life. Shattered Lily," I finish in a whisper.

I watch as the speed of his pacing increases, back and forth, back and forth. "I am well acquainted with chaos theories. I understand that! What I do not understand – _cannot_ – is... is..." He clenches his jaw, the tendons standing in relief. "You had _how many_ chances to tell me this? I do not care about the _paradox_. I care about you _not telling me_."

I cover my face with my hands.

He begins pacing again, agitated. I can actually hear his feet on the floorboards, and I know that doesn't bode well, _at all_. "But when have I ever – _ever! –_ given you cause to doubt me? To doubt that I will find some way to understand what you say? It is... the _doubt_. Is there _nothing_ I can do? Must I always _fail_ in this?"

It kills me - he's blaming himself, belittling his value, and oh, my gods, I made him mad at me. I am such an idiot. I shake my head, despondent. "No..." I moan. "It's not you. It is entirely me, I swear to you. My reasons are many, and irrelevant, and not one of them ever had anything to do with me thinking you couldn't handle it. I am... not always very..." I sigh again. "I can be very self-destructive. I do not mean to do it, but I do. I sabotage the things in my life that I love most, without even meaning to. You stand there thinking that I believe you to be worth less than you are, while I've been sitting here the whole time since you showed up, trying to figure out how I'm actually going to keep you convinced I'm worth your time."

Puffing his cheeks out he exhales, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, and silence reigns for a time. "Faugh. This entire thing is stupid, _cara. _ It is not befitting of our natures and our relationship for us to act this way, and yet, here we are." I look up, and I can tell he must have one hell of a headache, as so far he has had to rub his head several times, and he's been wincing off and on. "Both of us think we are not worth keeping, yes? You sabotage, I withdraw. This is not how things should be. This is not how things _are_ with us. But we _act_ this way? Auck. I cannot think. Just– Tch. _Cara_. You say you trust me, then you do things that say the opposite. I feel as though I must walk upon eggshells, and be ever vigilant for _partial truths_! That is _not_ how things are between man and wife!"

I stop cold, staring at him, suddenly clutching the edges of the stool with a white-knuckled grip. What kind of frightened flutter of madness is this? Do I even dare to look at this concept from just the corner of my eye? "Wife?" I rasp. My voice is hollow; if I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and fuck it all up right now, I'm going to turn into a pile of dry sand and blow away.

He grits his teeth. "We may not have that document– This _place_, and all its papers and licenses and _rules_..." he says, disgusted. "A marriage is between two people who vow to take care of and love each other. _We_ are _married_. So why do we act like foolish children, playing at house?"

I stare at him, kind of in shock. I hadn't really thought of it like that. Married? Committed, yes... but... the white dress, the paper, the priest, none of this has happened, no rite of passage, no clear signifier that flipped the switch in my brain from 'girlfriend' to 'wife'. "I– We–" I shake my head. "Because I'm apparently uncommonly thick-headed? I didn't realize you thought of me that way."

He gives me a look, one brow raised. "Before there were governments and rules, regulations – before paper-obsessed bureaucrats came to be – two people would say that they were together, and that would make them wedded." He jerks his head towards the house. "There are books on jumping over swords, or brooms, or– or slaves blowing into jugs and sharing a cup or some such, and that made them married. You have my earring, and that is more ceremony than many have."

My eyes hurt. Realizing that he has thought of me this way since he was first here... oh, how he humbles me. If I had understood he considered it a marriage rite, I would have proceeded a lot differently... certainly with more confidence. "I... I am trying to undo a lifetime of self-preservation habits. It is not my purpose to hide things from you. If you ask me a direct question, I answer. I'm not used to being safe to do that... with _anyone_. You... have me at a disadvantage. When I wrote to you, I could change what I said, make it better, more right, more honest. I could go back and fix it, so that I never said the less accurate thing. You only knew me at my best. Here, now, it is harder for me, because I cannot go back and edit myself. I miss things. I forget to tell everything. Honesty has put me in the hospital." It's my turn to grimace, and I hasten to carry on. "I do not mean to visit these things on you, and I would never think that any of it will happen again, but to train myself out of the fear is turning out to be very hard."

Finally his pacing stops, and I can tell he had to force himself to still – normally he is so measured, that I can feel the agitation radiating off of him in waves. "Honesty has done _many_ things to each of us, but _we_ are each others' _refuge_, the _one place_ where honesty is not meant to harm."

I am utterly defeated. What am I going to do with myself? I just want to lay down on the floor at his feet. I turn my face away, just in time to hide the first tear that escapes me. I've no right to tears, I brought this on myself. "I failed you," I admit, trying to keep my voice steady.

He curses, then comes to me, wrapping his arms about my shoulders. "Tch, woman..." he mutters. "You are so difficult sometimes, _cara_. You take on burdens that are supposed to be shared; it is not a failing. Merely a... ah... an eccentricity. A very, very bad habit." Oh gods, he is hugging me, and this sounds suspiciously like sudden forgiveness. I quiver, trying to hold it together, and then suddenly burst into tears, burying my face in his neck.

"I hate it when you're mad at me!" I wail.

He presses his lips to my forehead, squeezing me tighter. "Shhh... _Cara mia... Amora_ – hush. I am... disappointed. Frustrated." He rocks me side to side, his voice low and soothing, and I try to get a grip. I choke myself back fairly quickly, but, gods, nothing can strike a white-hot bolt of fear straight to the heart of me quite like the idea of this man being upset with me, for any reason. I swallow hard, taking comfort from the familiarity of his hands in my hair, and calm myself by main force. "I had thought us past this. This is like one of those, ah... What are they? Yes, the bumps, the yellow ones. Speed-bumps – unpleasant and jarring, but moved past quickly. It is a shock; it is disconcerting to think that I am someone you can doubt, and it stings."

"I do not doubt you, not for a second. I doubt myself, I doubt the humour of the gods, I doubt the nature of reality, I doubt everything else, but I believe in _you_.

He tangles his fingers in my hair, cradling my head in his hand. "We have not been clear enough I suppose, but what more can we do, other than continue, until we relearn how to share space? This is no camp, this is not the Blight. This is a place where rules are different, people are different – your _background_ is different."

"I know. I greatly fear whatever mechanism it is that brought you here, because I do not know what triggered it, or whether I could fuck it up somehow, inadvertently, and... and..." I shake my head. "I am just filled with irrational fears. You should ask me about mirrors sometime."

His lips quirk. "If they bother you so much, we can remove them, and I shall apply your paints for you, and do your hair so that you needn't worry over looking in them."

I can tell he's trying to make me laugh, and purposefully ignoring the other things and I shudder, trying to go along with it. "You have no idea how tempting that offer really is." I wonder if there will ever be anything I could do to fix this, or if what I've broken is gone now. I truly do not know how it is I rate high enough to deserve this good fortune, and I pray once more that the gods still find us humorous enough to let me keep trying to be worth it.

He bends his head, his mouth unexpectedly close enough that I can feel his breath across my cheek. He whispers, and his lips brush mine when he speaks. "Duly noted, _cara_."

I never could have predicted that he would kiss me, after all that. Sudden forgiveness, sudden kindness; it is over, our fight, just like that, with a kiss and a soft word. I melt into him, clinging tightly, overwhelmed with relief. _'Man and wife'_, he said... _'Man and wife'_. It echoes around and around in my head, and the more I think it, the more I feel it. Of course; of course we are. I do not understand how I failed to notice before. I was _his_, obviously, but the _word_... he says it like a title, and I intend to take it as such, to strive to be worthy of it.

After too little time he breaks away gently, and nuzzles at my cheek. "If there is one good lesson gained from the Crows, it is that we should not live in constant fear, but live bravely, and enjoy life when it is good."

I smile, a little watery around the edges, I'm sure. "I'm _trying_ to keep up; your strides are long."

"Tch. When you cannot keep up, I shall carry you; it is what a husband does for his wife, while she gives him purpose."

I trace the edge of his lip with my fingertip. "Can you forgive me?" I ask, though I know he already has; I wish to make the effort. "Can I make it up to you?"

He gives the tip of my finger a playful nip. "I would be willing to exchange forgiveness for a massage. Sensei Andre was uncommonly aggressive today."

I giggle, sudden warmth thawing the frost of self-loathing. He called me 'wife' again. It's crazy how safe that one, simple word makes me feel. "Massage, now _that_ is something I can do." I flex my hands. I'll have to run them under some hot water, but I think I've got at least an hour in them. I look back up at him and smile. "So, what are the naming conventions in Antiva? Are they the same? Patrilineal?"

He frowns. "No. A woman keeps her name. Children take both parents', or they can choose to keep one as they grow older." He thinks a moment. "Similar to Spain, I think. Antiva seems to be half Spain, half Italy."

I nod, thinking, then rise, and walk with him back to the house. "Is that how you would prefer it to be?"

He wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me so tightly against him, we're half atop each other as we head inside. "Anything you desire would make me happy."

I laugh. "What a pair we make, then. Here was I, thinking the same thing about you. We'll never make any proper decisions this way." His hand is warm upon my waist, and I can smell his neck as I turn my face toward him. A sudden rush of an entirely different kind of warmth assails me, and I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. I wonder how long it will last, that I cannot think of anything but his hands on me when I get so close to him. I cannot be distracted now, though; he needs me to fix him, so I pull him with me into the bedroom. I give him everything I have, try to pour all my fear and doubt into the energy I need to unravel all the tension and anger his muscles are suffering under. I continue until my hands ache, until he no longer flinches from any spot that was in need, until the tendons no longer jump under my fingertips.

Once I'm finished, he groans, stretching and rolling his broad shoulders. He looks up at me, smiling lazily, his eyes half-lidded. "Umf... do you feel better Lily _mia_?"

I pause, surprised, and then smile, slowly. This was as much for me as it was for him; he knew it, I didn't. "You're too clever for me by half."


	11. Absolution

"Ah, is it not better to beat upon someone other than oneself? Besides, he really did get in a good kick. If Sensei didn't pull his strikes so much, I would be pissing blood for days." He rolls over onto his back and I watch as his eyes light up with amusement. "Then again, if I hadn't pulled my strikes, he would have no teeth."

I grin and flop down on the bed next to him, curling against his side and resting my head on his shoulder. I drape my arm across his belly, letting my hand hang bonelessly on the other side of his waist. "If it were truly a fight, would you win?"

Now he laughs full-out. "You need ask, _cara_? My life has been nothing but one long fight, these months with you notwithstanding. A lifetime of battle – to breathe, to eat, to sleep, and then to live... Ah..." He snickers. "Sensei would not know what hit him."

I smile happily. That's my man. "Hmh. Thought so... but I'm biased."

He rolls into me, one broad-palmed hand sliding under my shirt, making my skin shiver at the contact. "Ah... there is nothing wrong with bias, as long as it does not blind to possibilities."

And just like that, so easily, he has me breathless, losing the thread of the conversation. "P– Possibilities?" I murmur distractedly, turning my face to nuzzle at his shoulder. Ah, his skin is always so _hot_.

Zev makes that funny little purring hum as his mouth travels softly across my collarbone, leaving another trail of heat. "Possibilities are _everywhere, cara_." Before I can stop him – not that I would ever want to! – his lips seek out and close over one of my nipples, through my shirt, that so-hot hand moving beneath the waistband of my jeans. My nipple stands immediately to attention, puckering hard enough to make me gasp.

Oh, he knows my weakness for hands, and he knows his are _perfect:_ strong, nimble, the length of fingers that are hard as steel, the roughness of his calluses, the breadth of his palm. I don't know what he does – I've even watched him do it, and I still can't tell – but once he slides his fingers between my folds, it's like there's a ball of fire there that has been just waiting for his touch, and his alone. I shiver and arch into his hand, my arm going around his shoulders, my leg sliding over his.

Forcing my own hands to obey, I tug the band out of his hair and toss it over the side of the bed, so I can bury my fingers in it. It is thick, and strong, so thick it seems like it should be coarse, but it isn't; it's as soft as satin. "Zev..." I breathe, writhing into him, crushing all my softness against all the hardness of him, covering myself in his vanilla-ocean-cinnamon-and-leather scent. One of my hands slides down his neck and across his shoulder; I may have just kneaded all that muscle into submission, but there is nothing like the feel of his body in motion. He rolls his hips forward against my thigh; the thick, hardened length of him takes my breath away, as ever, and awakens a desperate need that makes me gasp with the sudden ache of it. Shuddering, I counsel myself to patience; he's been attempting to teach me to slow down, and I am finding it maddening, to say the least.

My fingers brush along the edge of his ear, and I take advantage of his sudden pause to slip down further under him, putting me on a level to kiss him. He kisses me back, briefly, his tongue wrapping strongly around mine, and I moan into his mouth, but then he grabs me by the wrists, pinning them above my head. I gasp as he tears his mouth away from mine and looks at me with narrowed eyes. "Ah-ah, no touching, _cara_. Not this time."

My heart stutters with a rush of fear-soaked desire, and my voice comes out more than a little breathy. "What?" I swallow. Am I still in trouble after all? "Why?" Oh, I don't care what I did, I'll do anything, anything to make it up to him, just as long as he doesn't stop touching me, oh gods. My skin sticks to the inside of my clothing, and I can feel the wetness between my thighs soaking into the denim of my jeans. It's too hot, I want to get all this fabric off of me, and I tug at my hands. I know I've got no hope of escape, if he doesn't want me to, but he usually lets go.

Not this time. He hisses, producing a scarf out of the nowhere-land above the headboard where I didn't know he'd stashed it, and I feel another burst of lust-laden fright. Before I can even open my mouth to protest, there is a quick flurry of movement at my hands, the feeling of silk sliding along my skin, and then it's too late, and his hands are already busy with the buttons of my flannel shirt. Oh, at least he'll give me some kind of relief from the heat, let my skin breathe. I buck upward, trying to press myself to him again, but he backs away just a fraction. I sag back with a sigh, aching, throbbing with need.

"You are too distracting. You... You make me crazy with the ears. _Always_ with the _ears_!" His voice is soft and strained, a whispering hiss of frustration and desperation as his practised hands travel lower, stripping away barriers with careless ease. His roughened fingertips trace lazy spirals across my stomach, writing on my skin with his own heat. I quiver and gasp, the lightness of the touch making the hairs stand on my skin. "Do you know, you sat behind me on the couch the other day for half an hour. _Half an hour_, woman!" He presses his mouth to the underside of my breast, licking a hot line beneath it; his breath leaves a shivering trail of cold behind, making my nipples pucker even harder, almost painfully, in the chill air of the bedroom.

"Playing with my ears. Just... just _touching_ them," he says, and I have to try really hard to hold on to the thread of what he is saying to me. It's important. "And then?" he asks, and I open my eyes, looking down at him. He leans in to kiss my bellybutton rather thoroughly, and I shiver for him, my eyes fluttering closed again as the sensation of his tongue rolling over that under-loved little body-part makes me press my thighs together in near-total agony. I shift, writhing back and forth, hoping that maybe I can just wriggle out of my jeans all on my own. "And then?" he prompts. He plants a hand on my stomach, holding me down, and bites my hip; I jump, squeaking. He looks up at me, amber eyes ablaze with a hunger so intense it intimidates me. "What did you do?" he demands. "Hm? Tell me, _cara_, what did you do to me?"

I blink. His ears? There is something very vital I'm missing in this conversation. "Was that when I went to the store?"

He practically gnashes his teeth. "Yes! You left! You left me here, for three hours. Three _hours_! I thought I would go _mad_." He pulls my shirt aside completely, with a quick gesture, pinning the sides to the bed as though they would try to escape. He brushes the rough skin on his palm across the tips of my nipples, bringing me arching off the bed as a double bolt of fire shoots straight from his hands to add to the blaze steadily rising between my thighs, and I keen with the sudden pulse of ache.

"Three hours you left me here, even leaving before I had a chance to tell you to stay." He's not much taller than me, but his hands are bigger than mine, and he delights in proving just how easily my breasts fit in them. He cups them in his burning hands, and I whimper again, straining at the scarf as his lips pull at one of my nipples, and then he licks my collarbone. I shudder and tug at my bonds, moaning and arching at the wetness that he spreads over my skin. My fingers ache to ride the swell and flex of his muscles as he moves over and around me. "Mph, _cara_, you are a most detestable cock tease."

I gasp. Oh, gods, I never meant to be; doesn't matter – I'm going to pay for it anyway. He is all over me, licking or biting his chosen patch of skin, and then moving to another. I am awash in the sensation, my fingers flexing uselessly against the silk at my wrists, and he has yet to even pull my pants down. My head sags back, my eyes closing out of sheer self-preservation. His teeth dig into the inside of my thigh through the denim, making me shriek, and then he's rubbing his face over my jeans-covered crotch, just enough sensation to make me whimper, but not enough to get me anywhere.

His fingers curl into the waist of my pants – finally! – and I strain to raise my hips for him as he yanks them down roughly. He mutters darkly, "Tch, such a _cocktease_, and then claiming a _headache_? I have been _dying_. I was so distracted! How else do you think Sensei scored those hits? Why _else_ would I be so agitated, I sought out more books, and found that disc, hm?"

I'm long past being able to respond; I can barely pay attention. I am molten. Kneeling between my thighs, he is preventing me from rubbing my legs together. I am so turned on right now it hurts. I moan and writhe helplessly, aching to touch him, completely unable to, and he laughs at me. Callused fingertips run over my sides and it tickles too much. I _hate_ being tickled, and jerk upward out of reflex, but before I can complain, my assassin is kissing down my side, over my hip, across the outside of my thigh.

A gasp breaks from me as he sucks at the spot behind my knee. It should tickle, but he is doing it so hard that it doesn't have a chance to. That other hand of his – that other, evil, glorious, burning hand – is tracing along my seam, teasing me to unbearable heights. My hips buck, almost of their own accord, as I hope to drive his fingers into me, praying that he eases the agony of arousal. There is a dark chuckle, and then his hand is gone. "Tsk-tsk, look at you." My vision is swimming and unfocussed as he sucks at his digits. "Hmmn, you are sopping already."

'Already'? Oh my gods.

Again, he teases me, parting my folds, and I can feel blessedly cooler air touching me. "Ah, all this–" I suck in a sharp breath as he punctuates his sentence by circling the tip of a finger around my opening. "–From only a little touching? Ah, _cara_, you are _such_ an impatient one."

'A little'? Oh my gods. I'm _toast_.

He's going to torture me. "Zev," I plead, and I don't care that I'm whining. I'm about ready to tear down the curtains with the power of my mind alone, and I know, I can tell just by the look on his face that he has no intention of mercy.

"My head, it has pounded, as though there was a parade occurring between my ears. Auck! _My ears,_ woman. For _three hours_, and now for two _days_ we have not lain together. No _wonder_ I am so testy."

I am shocked. Something about what I did has set him so on edge, he's about to take every moment of that frustration out of my hide. I beg desperately, even as I know, with sinking heart, that begging has no effect on him, when he's of a certain mind. "Zev," I gasp, "Zev, please. If you wanted me, why did you hold out so long?"

He snorts and bites my inner thigh, his mouth so close to where I need him... _so close_, but no closer. "So that I could better punish you for those three hours you left me in the land of nightmare!"

Correction: burnt toast.

I go over that afternoon again in my head; what was it about going to the store that has driven him so mad? What had I been doing? I was stroking his ears and giving them little kisses. He had seemed to like it, face relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep... Plus he had made these tiny little rumbles in his chest, and there was no way I could have resisted that... But I had had to go to the store; they would have closed by the time Zev and I were finished doing anything.

"Nightmare?" I squeak. "I just–" He cuts me off in a most efficient way: two fingers spear me, bury up to the knuckles, and curl. I scream as my back bows automatically, my muscles clamping down on the intrusion. Fingers, his gorgeous, perfect fingers – I sob as I collapse back to the bed, realizing that they aren't enough. They just aren't enough. He caresses me deep within, watching my face carefully as my hips sway upward of their own accord, in time to his motions. I begin to whimper, tiny little sounds in the back of my throat, the burning pleasure exquisite. I have to struggle to focus on his words as the haze of desire begins to take over my mind again.

"My _ears_, woman! After four months, you have yet to understand how sensitive they are? I have so many nerve endings there – I can hear you in the shower when you masturbate; how do you think I know when to barge in? And with so many nerves– argh! Woman! I was hard enough to drill holes through _concrete_ by the time you left!" He growls and I can feel the air shuddering from his mouth near my soaking wetness. "You are a very, very bad woman."

This penetrates my fog like a bucket of cold water, and I start babbling. "Oh my gods, I had no idea, I wouldn't–"

Again he silences me – or, well, sort of silences me. I can't talk. I can't form a coherent thought, because there are velvet soft lips wrapping around my clit, almost nibbling, and a flick of a tongue rockets bolts from that sensitive little button straight to my brain. I think I scream again; I can't be sure, and I have no sense at all of the passage of time. One moment, I am gasping, fighting for oxygen, and in the next, he _stops_, leaving me trembling on the edge. Mewling at the loss of his mouth, and then even the loss of his fingers, I writhe and buck toward him, meeting nothing but air.

"Ahh... haha... Lily _mia_. You think that this is bad, yes? Oh... but I have barely even begun," he purrs, amused.

Oh gods. I am _screwed_ – it's my only even partially intelligible thought. What happens next is a blur. Hands, mouth, face even – how he brings his _face_ into the game I don't even understand, but he is rubbing and nuzzling at me like a cat. I'm pretty sure he cut my shirt off; in that regard, all I'm sure of is that, at some point, I realize it's not on me anymore. I am a mass of abused and electrocuted nerve endings, a keening pile of pure need, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

It's the worst thing ever when he kicks his jeans away and rubs the hot, silky smooth weight of his cock over my breasts, straddling my waist, his hands on the headboard above me. All I want is to taste his skin, to have that hard length between my swollen lips – either set. Anything, anything! Yet, he denies me.

No matter how I lift my head, no matter what angle I move my neck – I can't get a hold on him. Even the one time there is a brief press of silken skin to my lips, just enough for me to taste the seeping pearls that have worked out of his member, he just doesn't give me enough time.

He slides down me, knees on either side of my hips, and angles his so the tip of him burrows into my cleft, rubbing along my pearl. His hands – oh gods, his hands – they're in my hair, tugging at the locks and sliding over my skull. And then – no, no – I thrash and buck, I practically squeal, arching toward him and trying to open my legs, as he finds it. He finds that spot, the one I don't tell _anyone_ about. The one that makes me want to rip the world down just so I can feel something burying itself deep within me.

My skin is twitching uselessly, my lungs burn almost as bad as my womanhood, craving more of this horrific torture. Breath coasts over my mouth, and I fight my eyelids, trying to open them, until I see him staring down at me. There is barely any gold left to his eyes; they are swallowed by pure black pupil. Under his honey bronze skin he is flushed, and his lips are swollen. Sobbing again, I buck weakly against him as his hand returns to the place he has found, and then Zev is smiling that triumphant smile of his, the one that says 'ah-ha, I got you'.

"Ahh..." His voice is dark – so, so dark – like hot chocolate laced with a potent, dark rum. "So, I have _found_ it. Hmmm... _good_. Do you like that?" He rubs at the very specific place at the base of my skull, occasionally yanking at the hair there, close to the scalp.

My eyes roll up and I groan, unable to form words. I am pure sensation, wordless begging. I would do anything, anything he asks, but he asks nothing. His lips press down on mine, and the slick muscle of his tongue plunders my mouth, his weight bearing me down. Oh, his weight, and the press of him. I writhe for him, arching upward, wanting him so much, so much, and almost– almost– he is almost inside me, but not quite, and no matter how I struggle I can't get any closer.

Zevran, my evil, cruel, merciless assassin, ends the kiss, and puts his mouth near my ear. "You are so hungry, you think you will die if you cannot have my cock inside you. Nod yes, like a good girl."

_Anything, anything._ I can't speak; my voice is long gone, what little noise I can make nothing more than a strangled sound. My head jerks like it's on a string. _Only the truth, only the truth._

"Good," he purrs, and nothing has ever felt so good as this tiny amount of approval. Just as I am beginning to feel some kernel of hope that he might be done with me, I realize that he has yet to actually find his own release. Oh, gods, it's not over. I should know better, by now, than to underestimate him. His warmth is suddenly gone, his body leaving me, and the bead dips as he slides away. "I am thirsty. Are you thirsty?"

It is horrible. He sounds like this is nothing more than a conversation. Brokenly, I sob, needing him so badly it makes my bones ache. I clamp my legs together and draw them up against my body, curling into a little ball on my side, and I'm certain I'm crying, though my face is so hot, I cannot feel it.

A hand, gentle and sweet comes to rest on my cheek. "Shh, _cara mia_, worry not; I shall be back in just a moment."

If he leaves me for three hours like this, the way I – oh, in my innocence – left him, I'll die. I will burn up into a little puff of toaster ash. Why hadn't he said that I had done this to him? Is what I'm suffering now even a shadow? Or am I worse off? Oh gods, how did he cope?

Oh, desert Scorpio, thy revenge, it is hot, not cold, and this poor little northern fishie is now being roasted alive.

It feels like ages, the minute or two that he is gone. The sound of gulping water comes from beside me, and I open my eyes to see Zev there, my gaze dragging upward, travelling higher and higher. He is naked, his manhood jutting out proudly. I need it; at this point I'd be willing to agree to anywhere, anywhere at all, just so long as he gives it to me. His head is tipped back, throat working as he drinks in long, smooth pulls from his glass, which he refills from the pitcher in his hand several times. The way his adam's apple moves under his skin makes me distracted with a sudden hunger to lick it, to feel it working under my lips, and I whimper again, silently.

I watch him raptly, unsuccessfully licking at my lips, and at last he takes pity on me. Sitting beside me on the bed, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and sits me up a bit, tipping the glass to my mouth, and I drink; oh, sweet elixir. He refills the cup for me twice before I finally begin to feel some sense of normality, some coolness, some relief. I sag back against the bed as he gently disengages from me.

I try to focus, realizing that he is fishing out an ice cube – my scattered thoughts try to pull themselves into line, to begin to conjecture what he is going to do with it, but Zevran doesn't give me time to wonder. He sits beside me, watching my every reaction – eating it up. He stretches his hand out over my chest; icy cold drops from the melt dribble onto a nipple, and he traces it around the peak. I am so hot, I am melting, and the shock of ice is _painful_.

Painful, and good, and horrible, and unbearable, and pure ecstasy. The chilled pebble is soothed back to warmth by his tongue swirling around it, and his breath– oh, his breath– and, oh gods, I am going to die. He repeats the same thing at my other breast, and the sound of further ice clinking against glass barely registers.

I am mindless, every nerve arguing with the facts that I am on fire _and_ I am freezing. A meandering trail of cold is traced down my stomach, until he abandons the ice in my bellybutton. It melts in seconds, and little dribbles of water streak down my sides. Another cube soon replaces the melted one, and– oh gods. No. No he can't do that – I struggle, my legs parting of their own accord, and somehow I find the voice to scream yet again. Freezing cold presses over the hot button of my clit, runs up and down the edges, going over the side of the ridge, and droplets of water are joining the thick moisture weeping from my cunt. (Sometimes cunt is a good word...)

The water is lapped away as Zev's mouth follows the icy path he laid down my torso, and just as he reaches my throbbing, aching pearl, he pushes the remainder of that last cube inside me. Every muscle in my body stands up and strains the resolve of my skin to hold the muscles to my bones and under my flesh. It is a losing battle, because he is flickering his tongue over me, and I keen.

He growls, the vibration against my sex increasing and echoing back my cry of completion, but I am not finished, and he keeps me there, holding me at that height, refusing to let the orgasm ease up and taper off. No. He rubs his fingers inside me, his tongue runs all around my womanhood, sucking on the inner petals and then back up to the ridge, and I am flying. I am dying, no – I am dead. There is nothing beyond the sensation of him holding me here; my world narrows down to one flaming, shuddering point.

I drift, semi-conscious, the sound of his voice washing over me, but I am completely unable to make any sense of the words. The bed shifts and dips, and then his hands are at my knees, hooking behind them, folding me in half, rolling me so that my hips are thrust into the air. Pressure on my back has my knees almost touching my chest, and then I am being stretched, conquered, invaded. Filled, oh gods, at last.

He grabs my shoulders, shoving me deep into the bed, just as he is shoving himself deep into my body, and I arch my back, crying out, bucking backward against him. The slap of skin is loud, as are his low, strained grunts. Every sensation stands out in stark detail. The skin of his erection slips and slides inside me with every forceful thrust. I can feel him hitting, striking, practically _attacking_ that interior curve that is my g-spot. I am nothing more than a gibbering mass of pleasure. His hips slam against me again and again, his tip rudely nudging my cervix, but– oh gods. Nothing has ever felt so good.

I have never had a man so deep inside me that I would swear I could feel it in the back of my throat, but Zev is there, and he is using every ounce of leverage to ram home, into me. I still have yet to stop orgasming, he has somehow held me there, refusing – refusing so cruelly – to let me fall. My heart shudders and trembles in my breast, and I can't breathe. I don't even want to. My eyes somehow focus and I can see him, savage and wild, teeth bared down at me, sweat running from his temples and down his neck to his chest. He is glistening with effort, and we are made even more slippery for it. Oh, gods, he is glorious. The grip of his hands on my shoulders will probably leave bruises, the way he is rolling against me, and I can't summon up enough energy to care, at all.

I want him to mark me. There is no room in my world for anything but him, my Zev, and his thick, long cock working me over. The sound of him, the sight of him– Oh. He is struggling, I can see it. b_**I**_/b_ do this to him,_ and I am _proud_ of it.

His back arches suddenly, with no warning, his fingers clamping on me even harder, and he shoves all the way in, so deep I swear my body will suck him in and swallow him whole. Zev is pulsing inside me, right against the mouth of my womb, pouring his seed in with such force I feel it striking my walls. I moan as he moans, as he pulls away. Slipping down between my legs, he presses his face to me again, tonguing at me, swirling wetly inside me, sucking out our mixed releases. I feel devoured, like I am being eaten whole by a starving man. I can make no sound, I can still barely breathe, and somehow he pushes me over the precipice fully. I crash land like a plane shot out of the sky, completely wrecked.

Somehow, I don't faint; somehow, I have the presence of mind to return the kiss he gives me, sloppy and artless as I am in my delirium. The mixture of his seed and my orgasm on my tongue is heady and divine. I only know he has untied my hands by the fact that he is drawing my arms around him, rolling onto his back, forcing me to follow. Panting, I lay my head on the pillow, my mouth near his neck, and as Zev's chest heaves with panting of his own, I am shifted up and down.

"If you leave me in that state again, _cara_, it will be far worse for you than this time." I can tell it is a promise.

I immediately cling around him, burying my face in his neck. "Never, never," I swear, whispering brokenly. "I didn't know."

"Tch, too bad." His head shifts, and I can see the corner of Zev's lips twisted up into a smile. "It would be fun to try and top this." He is winded, even still, and I know how much he must have enjoyed this. "I suppose I would have to go to the hardware store and find some rope."

"No..." I pant, begging. "I'll die."

Zev shakes his head, wrapping his arms around me and holding me closer. "Ah, too bad. Good thing I value you too much to let that happen."

"No more, no more, I'll be good, I swear." I am begging again, pressing my lips to the side of his neck.

He murmurs an approving groan. "Yet, being bad has its rewards, _cara_." Gently rubbing at the small of my back, easing knots I didn't know I've developed, he muses distractedly. "I suppose, after this, you should stay in bed for a day." I tense, anticipating more punishment. Oh, gods, an entire day? He chuckles under his breath. "To recover, that is," he amends, and I sigh, relaxing again.

"I'll be lucky if I can move," I whisper. In truth, I haven't. At all.

"Mmm... I shall be a slave to your needs then," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and I shiver.

"Mmh... I'm going to pass out now," I mumble, feeling the darkness closing in from all sides. He laughs, he says something... I don't know what. The next thing I'm aware of is early morning light, and the smell of coffee.


	12. Reconnecting

"Mmh... I'm going to pass out now," I mumble, feeling the darkness closing in from all sides. He laughs, he says something... I don't know what. The next thing I'm aware of is early morning light, and the smell of coffee. Another day. I must have slept for twelve hours. I think about moving, but... that just seems masochistic. Eventually, I must give in to the demands of the physical and, with great effort, I drag myself upright and haul myself out of bed. Everything aches. I feel like I spent the night tumbling in the dryer. Half-way to the bathroom, my knees give out, and I catch myself on the dresser. I kneel, pressing my forehead to the wall, and eventually crawl into the bathroom.

I manage to navigate my way through having a wee, but then my legs refuse to work for me anymore. I crawl across the floor, climb up and over the side of the tub, and tumble in. The porcelain is cold against my back, and it actually feels good. I cover my face with my hands and think really hard about hot water, but the Force just isn't with me. After a time, my stomach muscles stop jumping and complaining, and I let go of my face so I can try to haul myself upward. When I open my eyes, he is standing across from me, leaning against the counter and watching me, ohhh, so smug.

"Good morning, _cara_," he says, not even bothering to hide the grin. He is well pleased with the sorry state of me. Stubborn, stubborn as I've ever been, I climb to my feet and lean against the wall.

"Zev... The morning came too quickly. Mmmh..." I complain, and then catch sight of myself in the mirror. "My hair is frightening. I'll never get all the tangles out." I reach down and turn on the taps, waiting for the water to heat up. My body gets the better of my resolve, and I slowly slide down the wall to sit on the floor of the tub again. I pull the knob for the shower, and it falls to spray me right in the face. I screw up my eyes and bow my head.

"I shall pull all the tangles from it, if you cannot," he says, waving a hand. Such things are immaterial, apparently. "You did not wait for me. You are crawling around on the floor in here. Tch. Did I not say that I would take care of you? Hm? So impatient!" He sighs again.

"I don't... I'm not very good at being weak. Perverse, I know, considering what kind of state you found me in to begin with, but... I always stand on my own two feet, you know? I'm not used to not being able to..." I stop, frustrated. "I don't like to lean on people."

He is quiet for a moment, watching me intently. I can tell he's ordering his thoughts, and it makes me a little uneasy; he usually only does that when he is uncertain as to what my reaction to something will be. Finally he sighs, once more. "_Cara_, no one can go through life without leaning on others. It has been dangerous in the past, I understand that, but this is _now_. I say I can carry you, that we can share burdens. You say you agree. So – rather than simply agree, why not try following through?"

I groan and cover my face with my hands, so it doesn't get sprayed really hard when I tip my head back. He's got me dead to rights. Again. I have got to stop struggling with myself, I really do. "I know... I'm trying, I really am."

He comes and kneels by the tub, and adjusts the water, putting the stopper in the tub. "There are people in this world who care for you, _cara_, who would never do a thing to hurt you. I am one of them, and I say I was to be here to take care of you, and what do you do during my five minutes of distraction, rather than wait? You crawl."

He tugs my hands away from my face and cups my cheeks, leaning his forehead against mine. "I am not the only one who cares for you. Jack does, and there, out on the porch, is a bizarre little woman with something called 'brownies', who insists she is your friend. In fact, she threatened to 'break her foot off in my ass' if I had hurt you. You think you are alone, you have been separated from your fold, yes." He presses a quick kiss to my lips as he reaches out and turns off the tap. "But... you were never alone; you only had to open your eyes and see."

I rest my forehead against the edge of the tub, defeated again. Trust, trust, trust. There are so many ways in which I do not show it, even though I feel it. My wrists ache from how much I pulled on them last night, and the skin is a little pinked from rubbing against the silk. Next time – oh, gods, _next time_ – I must remember not to struggle so hard, because my hands aren't going to be the same for _days_.

There is a shout from the vicinity of our living room. "Hey girly! You okay in there? Are your tits out?"

I look up, at the doorway, even though she's obviously not going to be standing there. "Sofia!" I haven't seen her since last summer! "Yes! Wanna see?"

"You bet!" I laugh as Zev smiles, and there is the sound of that little skipping, hop-bounce-run that is pure Sofia on the floorboards of my house. Same scamper since we were eleven. Her head pops around the door. "Whooo, hey, nice view. Girl in tub, man on knees. I'm down." She holds up a pan. "Hey, I brought brownies!"

I snort, but I'm smiling. "So I hear! Are they safe?"

Zev's eyes widen, and he turns to look at Sofia. "I _ate_ one of those. What does she mean, 'are they safe'?"

Sofia laughs, going to the toilet and plunking down, completely unselfconscious. "Oh, don't worry, sugar plum, they're totally safe. Except for your waistline that is, but you sure don't look like you need to worry about that."

I narrow my eyes a little. "Yes. Sofia makes the best brownies _ever_... No lie. However, sometimes there's a little more than just _chocolate_. What's in them this time?"

She shrugs, but I can see the mischievous twinkle in her eye. She keeps her voice light. "Oh, you know... the usual. Milk, eggs, sugar, chocolate, some Milka bars chopped into the mix... and y'know. My good oil."

"Not mushrooms this time, I hope."

"Good... oil?" Zevran is frowning now, sitting on the floor in confusion. "Mushrooms?"

"Oh! Nonono. Those are no good for cheering you up. Only my special blend of awesome-sauce and chocolate relax-ey goodness go into each brownie." I watch as she digs one out, holding it out to me. "See? Lots of little choco-chunks of yummy!" she says in a wheedling, sing-song voice.

I sigh in relief. "Oh. Thank gods, it's just green." I take and bite it, then point at her. "I'm not having a repeat of last summer. No more mushroom brownies. They were great, right up until the sky started to strobe black, white, and hot pink."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh don't worry. I only made those by accident. Elric switched the bottles on me. God, those things were awful – imagine: the whole Viking horde with gas."

I gag. "Do I have to?"

Zev laughs. "I am sure that it only mixed with their innate scent."

Sofia begins to giggle. "So, it came from both ends, all this gas. Belching and farting." She snorts, unable to continue.

"Marvellous that they learned how to multi-task," Zev says, and Sofia laughs so hard I think she might fall over.

I groan. "That's _nasty_."

Zev snorts. "She started it!"

Sofia shakes her head and points at me. "No, actually – _she_ started it!"

I hold my hands up, laughing with them. "Hey, hey, I was just saying I didn't want to get dosed today, I didn't need to know all the nasty stuff about Elric's crew." I watch the two of them and realize I'm in deep trouble. It's like having mirror image perverts crammed into the bathroom with me.

"So, I heard through the grapevine, that, you know... you needed someone 'round here, and I also heard that I should put on my stompy boots." She stretches her legs out, showing off her blue-and-purple-plaid custom-painted Docs. "I couldn't get away from Seattle fast enough. Really, I tried, but the boss-man – _former_ boss-man... God, why don't I know any assassins–" I choke at this statement while she blithely continues, "–docked my wages, and I really needed to get my car fixed, and then I had to get the dough together so I could break my lease."

Zev turns to me and grabs the soap. His look says it all. That is a straight on, 'I told you so', if I've ever seen one.

Sofia leans forward earnestly, elbows on her knees, fists under her chin. "I should have come sooner. And, you know, I _told_ you to call me if you needed help! I knew, one of these days, though– I knew that somehow you'd get away from that whole mess, and I wanted to be there to help out! So, sorry I'm late, but hey, at least I brought chocolate!"

I look between the two of them. "Mmh... You know how great I am at keeping in touch. I'm glad you're here now, anyway. You're not the first one to take me to task today, for not letting people help me." I sigh.

Zev only gives me a tiny smile, and sets about washing my torso, having finished with my legs during Sofia's rush of words. I close my eyes, trying to pretend that this is normal, that there's nothing wrong with letting... my... My train of thought completely derails over the word 'husband', and I end up looking at Sofia again as she speaks. "What are friends for?"

"Not used to 'friends'," I choke, but I realize, part of it is because I've been doing it to myself. I've had a few, Sofia being one of them, but I never lean on them. I never ask for help.

"Oh, so you say," she says, waving a dismissive hand. She picks a chunk of brownie off the side of the pan. "You just don't look around much. That whole 'nose to the floor' thing, it tends to push people away, eventually." I bow my head, duly chastened, yet again. I have got to force myself to start having more faith in them. "Except for the really stubborn ones. Good thing I like a challenge." It's eerie how she echoed Zev's earlier words, and I can see his lips tilt even further, his amusement deepening. Smug, sexy man.

"Ah, she's effervescent," he murmurs. He tips my head back so he can pour water over it.

"Mmmyep..." I mutter, half-incoherent, since he purposely ran his finger over that spot again, just once, making me shiver. Ohhh... so mean, so mean.

"Like an Alka Seltzer! My fizzy makes you feel better!" she chirps happily, and I groan with the badness of it. "Hey, at least I didn't start the 'plop-plop, fizz-fizz'."

"I try not to be this way, I really do." My voice is quiet, but strained. It bothers me that the way I've come to think of myself actually hurts _other people_. "It's hard for me to let go of control over myself, to let someone else have it, even a little bit, over me."

Zevran leans in to whisper in my ear. "You should relax, _cara_; let us take care of you a little, hmmm?" He glances at Sofia over his shoulder, his voice returning to a more normal volume. "I was about to pour some cups of coffee, do you know where the mugs are?"

She cocks her head and looks between us, snickers, and nods. "Sure, sure I do. Just one question Lils – do I need my earbuds?"

I groan. I wish I could say no, but I really don't know. "I... don't think so?"

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and I'm pretty certain he knows why I phrased it as a question. "I believe she is far too... worn out for any such activities." I can't hide my sigh of relief.

She pauses by the door and looks back at us over her shoulder, suddenly appraising him more seriously. "Oooh, where can I get me one like him? Minus the blond hair; it makes him look like Legolas and Ricardo Montalban had a baby." I feel a little jab of possessiveness until I remember her last bad relationship. Some stupid accountant with long blond hair ditched her for a socialite. As fast as that little pain came, it disappears, and I am able to laugh at it, as that statement is far funnier than she could ever know. "Meh. Too blond! Gods of chaos, save me from blonds! Augh!" She throws her hands up and flees.

Zev wrings out my hair and ties it up on my head. I have no idea how he does it, but something about the way he twists it, when it's wet, it just... stays that way. Even after it dries, if I don't mess with it, it stays. He tried to show me how he does it, but my fingers just don't move like that, and even when I do manage to get it in the right configuration, it's not tight enough, and it just kind of flops over and unravels.

He sits back and looks at me, very seriously, and I suddenly feel two inches high. The water begins to drain as he flips the plug-latch, and I pull my knees up to my chest. He holds his arms out, and I wrap mine around his shoulders, letting him pull me to my feet so he can get a towel around me. My legs begin to shake, no matter how much willpower I try to feed into them, no matter how he's got half my weight on his shoulders already, and he swiftly reaches down and catches me just as my knees give way completely. I squeak, my arms tightening around him, and hide my face against his neck. "Tch... _Cara_..." he murmurs reproachfully, and I realize he's not straining, even a little bit. He carries me like I'm nothing. I make a conscious effort to relax, and he kisses my shoulder. "Better," he says, and I smile.

It is a strange thing, to be carried like a child. I've never been carried, not since I was tiny, not without being in some kind of medical state of emergency. He sets me down on the bed and looks at me speculatively. After a moment, I can't stand it anymore, and I fidget. "What?" He just shakes his head and goes to my closet, and, after a lot of rummaging around, finally finds a dress he approves of. "A dress?"

"Yes, a dress." He arches an eyebrow, daring me to argue, and I shut my mouth. After a moment, he smirks, and gathers the sleeves up over his wrists. He takes my hands in his and raises my arms over my head. The dress just slides down and over my hips, and I suddenly understand. Trust. While he continues to dig around in my closet, I lean over and take advantage of the deodorant in my night-stand drawer. My hands barely work; I almost can't get the lid off. I finally fumble it back into the drawer just as he is returning to me with an old leather bodice I'd forgotten I even own. He pulls it around me, adjusts me to it, and does the laces with surprisingly expert efficiency, before straightening out my skirt.

Without preamble, he leans down and slides his arm under my knees again, and I lean into him. No panties. He must have a reason, so I just let it ride. Maybe he's thinking things will be easier for me if I don't have to struggle with them if I want to pee... and I can't really argue with that logic. He lifts my back first, letting my dress fall further over my thighs before he pulls me into his chest. Sofia watches, surprised, as my assassin carries me into the living room and puts me down in the centre of the couch. She arches an eyebrow at me, and I blush. The smug look on her face speaks volumes.

She holds out two mugs for us. "Okay, I really need to get me one of those, but please make him brunette, and tall. Then again... anything over 5'2" is tall to me!" she laughs, and winks at me.

"Hmm... That is a very good height," he says, gesturing toward my chest. He accepts both the mugs from her and hands one to me. "Everything is pillows."

"Oh, don't I know it!" she exclaims, laughing brightly. "This one time, I was so drunk, I just flopped on her, and used her as a big, giant, comfy body pillow. I thought I was in heaven."

Oh, gods, I remember that time. She had been giggling that everyone dancing at the bonfire were people inside her tummy, and that their happy dancing made her feel good, but any bad vibes would make her sick, so they had better make her happy or else. I smirk. "Hmm... that was the ecstasy mead, wasn't it."

She colours a little, looking into her coffee. "Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't remember that part..."

"I remember what came after it, too. Hmm... Something about being plaid... The yellow, blue, green, and white?"

Zev waves Sofia back to a sitting position and heads toward the kitchen. "I really must come across some of these chemicals you speak of. They sound... interesting."

I look into my own cup just in time to not drink my coffee black, and wait. "Well... There are ways we could go about that, if you really want to. Though... I'm not sure I want to drop acid again, after the fog incident."

"Fog?" he asks.

"Yeah... It was a hallucinogenic; I got lost in a really thick ground fog that wasn't actually there."

Zev returns with the creamer, handing it to me. "Tch, what would Jack say... um... a moment, a... _cara_." He reaches toward me as he sways for a second, the muscles of his face going lax, and shakes his head once, as though to clear it.

"Whoa, I want his metabolism!" Sofia exclaims.

I take his hand staring up at him, alarmed, suddenly worried – far too late – about what kind of effect the drugs of this world might have on his physiology. "Zev?"

His voice takes on a slightly dream-like quality. "My, ah... My head. It is... very... relaxed." He nods to himself absent-mindedly, then shakes himself, dropping my hand and is suddenly much more normal. "I am hungry. You must be hungry; aren't you hungry, _cara mia_? Sofia, you as well?"

I laugh with sudden relief. "That didn't take long."

Sofia laughs too, throwing her head back with glee. "Like I said: I want his metabolism!"

I look up at Zev. "I haven't eaten since... lunch yesterday. We skipped dinner," I remind him, and he nods, heading back into the kitchen.

"Omelettes?" he asks, a moment later.

"As long as it isn't grey, I'll eat it," I reply, and he laughs.

His voice is muted, emanating from the vicinity of our fridge. "There is... spinach – oh that looks good – and onions... ham... basil... Where is the– Tch– Ah! There it is..."

Sofia eyes me, nose scrunched up, curling her legs under her. "Wow, forty-five minutes..."

I gasp. "You were timing it?"

"Yup!" She is well pleased with herself.

"Why?"

Zevran's head pops around the corner, and he's got thing of string cheese in his hand, munching on it. "Eh? Timing what?"

"You, doofus," she says, nodding at him. "I like to know how long it takes to affect each person, so I can make calculations and give advice. Much better than Andy gave her about those pills that one time... two pills. Hah. It's a wonder we didn't have to take her to the hospital!"

I sigh. "Yes, well. I didn't know the x was mixed with mescaline, either."

Zev levels a look at me; even though I can see that he is high as a kite, his eyes are completely lucid. "Hospital? You took things that can hurt you? _Cara_, tch, you do realize that is no good. I do not approve."

I open my mouth to respond, but Sofia beats me to the punch. She covers her mouth, her eyes sparkling with humour. "Oh no, Zevran disapproves – minus ten!"

I look at her, horrified, choking on my coffee. "What?" I sputter.

She frowns, and they're both looking at me like I'm nuts. "You know, scoreboards...? Start off at a hundred, and goes up to two hundred...? Minus points for disapproval, plus for approval...?"

"Oh. Oh, right. Sports. I forget about that. People run around and do stuff. With balls. And sometimes sticks."

Zevran grunts from his position in the kitchen. "Sounds... rather... unstimulating." He begins to mumble to himself, and I can hear the unmistakable sound of cracking eggs. "Four eggs, four eggs... basil? Tomatoes. Where did I... ah... yes..."

Sofia darts a sly glance toward the kitchen, and leans in to speak quietly, and I shake my head, hands coming up in alarm. She frowns, leaning back, and I shrug. I point to my ear, and she nods in sudden understanding. If he can hear me in the shower from all the way in here, nothing we could whisper right now will go unnoticed... or... maybe... unpunished. Oh, gods, I can't take any more of that right now.

She folds her hands over her stomach. "So, I have an ulterior motive for coming back, as well. I was going to come down here anyway, because I need your help. Roxy – one of my friends in the dance community; we met at FolkLife a couple years ago – anyway, she wants me to help her plan her wedding, and I'm just crap at it. You, however, my fine, artistic friend, have exactly the eye I need. You're helping me."

Oh, no. A wedding. "Do I have to be in it?"

"Nope! But I'm the maid of honour, so you have to help me find a dress that is more awesome than the other bridesmaids' dresses, and... well... we're pretty much building this from the ground up. All she's given me is a colour scheme and a theme. The rest is up to us."

"Okaaaay... What are they?"

Sofia laughs. "She wants a black and blue pirate wedding, but she's going to be wearing a traditional dress."

I laugh, too. "Awesome. We should set it up as a kidnap scenario."

And just like that, I find myself planning a wedding.

I try really hard not to think about the fact that I won't be having one, myself. I don't need it, right? It's just papers, just rules... just a dress. Nothing so important as what it means, right? Right.

Besides, we're _already_ married, in the only way that truly matters. Right.


	13. Infirmities

A couple of months pass in a flurry of activity as I work hard to keep up with all my commissions and help with Roxy's wedding. Zev takes to reading in the park during the day. We go down there together sometimes for a picnic, but he likes wandering around and hiking a lot more than I do. He's like a kid-magnet – they always gather around him, asking a million questions. The mothers were all very wary of him at first, because of his appearance and all, but that went away the day he chased down and caught a kidnapper before he got away with a child.

The way he tells it, he just grabbed the guy and the kid ran back to his mother – no big deal. However, the story the mother told to the paper made him look like a super-hero, and what I got from Sofia by way of Jack was a lot more interesting. Apparently he heard the mother calling for her child from across the park, and then registered that there was a child looking in the direction of that call being restrained and whispered to by a man who bore him no resemblance. The guy was herding the child toward a car when Zevran relieved him of two of his molars, escorted the child back to his mother, and threw the would-be kidnapper down at her feet. He kept a foot on the guy's back while he calmly called Jack. Nobody really knows what he might've said to the guy, but Sofia says the man was so scared of Zev, he wanted to get in the car with Jack.

So now he takes a couple of kids' books with him sometimes, and I have to admit, it's pretty damned adorable to watch him with them. It makes my ovaries hurt. I wonder if we're ready for that... I wonder if I'm ready for it. I don't want to think about it yet. I'm still getting used to the idea that there's a man in my house who isn't going to hurt me, and he's my husband.

Between the two of us, Sofia and I have very little trouble – and a hell of a lot of fun – creating Roxy's wedding. It helps that we know so many pirates, and that she wants to keep things small. We book some time on the Lady Washington and go ahead with the kidnap scenario, and get them a suite at the Four Seasons for overnight. Roxy is under the impression that we intend to hold the entire thing in one of the rooms at the hotel, and we tell her to be ready by 2:00. This is the time, of course, when a dozen pirates descend on the hotel and carry off both her and Sofia. I stay and make sure that everything is where it ought to be, and take off at about 2:30.

It takes me four hours to make it home, because I hit base traffic from Fort Lewis when I get to Olympia, so I sit there on I-5 and fry for an hour as everyone crawls along at a snail's pace. It might be only 80 out here, but... the sun is merciless, and I'm used to living by the ocean, where it's always at least ten degrees cooler. I hate these forays into the inner reaches of the state. I never thought I'd be happy to see Aberdeen, that's for sure, but coming around the bluff to see that dirty little town spread out before me gives me a surge of hope. I'm almost home; just one more hour. At least from here I can smell the sea.

Finally – finally! – I pull into my own driveway, and drag myself out of the truck. I'm looking forward to having some dinner and curling up next to Zev; I just want the day to end. I practically run for the house, but the door is locked. I almost sit down and cry, right there. He's not here. I force myself to get a grip, giving myself a very stern talking-to, and unlock it, go inside, and start working on making food. I sit next to the cold hearth and eat a lonely meal of shrimp salad and sliced pineapple. I never quite realized how empty the house is without him, how lonely it is to eat by myself. Watching Roxy today, how happy she was... helping her into her dress, how beautiful she was... fixing her hair, and how radiantly she beamed... I'm just an aching ball of angst. I know I would feel better if he were here, if I could just curl up against him and close my eyes... After a very pathetically short time sitting there in the suddenly oppressive silence, I become restless and begin prowling around the house.

I wander into the bedroom and flop down on the bed, burying my face in his pillow, comforted a little by his scent, but a pillow has no arms, no breath, no voice, and it does not appease my restlessness. I stand up again, looking at the thing, debating whether it would be completely silly to carry it around the house like a teddy bear, and finally compromise by putting on one of his shirts, instead. This reminds me that I haven't finished my dress for next weekend's SCA event, so I pace into my sewing room and look at my machine, but I have spent too much time sitting down today. I turn to go, but something registers in my mind as being 'not right', so I turn back and look at the room again, scanning over all the familiar objects. Finally, it hits me: the dress form. It's empty. It's empty, when it's been holding Zev's armour for the last seven months.

A cold stab of fear strikes to the very heart of me. The humour of the gods has run dry, and I'm alone again. Have I been too happy? Did they think I was taking this for granted? Calm down, calm down. There's a reasonable explanation for this, right? There has to be. People don't just... disappear. I laugh, a little hysterical, and cover my mouth with my hands. They don't just appear, either. I close my eyes, burying my face in the cuffs of his shirt, as they come down almost to my knuckles, and breathe in; he steadies me, even when he's not here. I'm just being paranoid; he's got to be around here somewhere, I tell myself, sternly. Finally, I pull out my cell phone and stare at it.

After a moment of lip-chewing, I text Jack. "Seen Zev?"

The text I get back does nothing for my state of mind, and is like a punch to the chest. "Not today."

I start pacing. He's not with Jack. Who else? He could be at the dojo, but he isn't usually there this long, and besides, they closed an hour ago. Where else could he be? We don't have a second car. He could have taken a cab, but where would he go? It's too late for him to still be at the park. I stuff my phone back in my pocket and wander outside to the shop, my feet automatically carrying me to the place where I always work out all my frustrations. Hours pass, and I whip a pile of wood into a chair, but still, he has not come. The sun is setting; it's got to be going on 9:00, and he isn't here. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

I find myself staring, just staring out the window, and force myself to turn back to the chair. I need to focus on something, anything but where my mind is trying to fall over the edge of a screaming abyss. I flip on the light and start working on sealing the wood.

The crunch of gravel alerts me to visitors, just as I'm finishing painting on the first coat of sealant. I need to get out of the shop for now, anyway, because the smell of the chemicals is making me dizzy. Forcing myself to move at a normal pace, I put the lid back on the pot and drop the brush into the bucket in the shop sink. I wash my hands twice, then turn for the door. There is a broad-shouldered shape silhouetted against the darkness, leaning against the door frame, and I jump back, startled. My hand automatically reaches out for a weapon, and lands on a mallet nearby, but his laugh stops me. "Zev," I gasp, "You scared the life out of me!"

"So I see," he says. "I did not think I would, as I was careful to stand where you could see me."

I press a hand to my chest, trying to control my fluttering heart. "I didn't," I say, still a little breathless. In the next moment, I am pressing myself against him tightly, and he folds me in his arms. This is when I realize he is wearing his armour. "Where were you?" I make a choked little sound that is suspiciously close to crying, burying my face in his neck.

"Tch, cara, what is all this, hm? Did you think I would abandon you?" I realize I'm shaking, and try to calm myself. I didn't dare admit just how terrified I was that he was gone until now.

"No, not on purpose."

He growls. "Again? Will we never escape this fear?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I haven't thought of it in months, but then you weren't here, and your armour was gone, and Jack said he hadn't seen you, and then it got dark–" He silences me with a kiss, and I melt into him, so beyond relieved. When he finally pulls back, I put my hand to the side of his face, running my thumb over his cheekbone. "You need a cellphone."

He frowns. "You have one. We don't need two."

"Yeah, but in situations like this, if I had been able to just call you when I saw that your armour was gone, and you answered, I wouldn't have spent four hours freaking out. And, and, what if there had been an emergency? What if I got into a wreck on my way home from Seattle, and needed you? Or what if you get stuck somewhere, and you need me?"

I watch him mull that over. "Fine, but only you and Jack may have the number. I have no wish to be yammering away on such a device all day, the way so many do. If I wish to speak to a person so much, then I shall go and speak with them, not rely on a piece of overpriced plastic."

I nod, completely overwhelmed with relief. "Okay. Deal. Emergencies only."

"Good. Now, this room smells like the ass end of a camel. Let's go inside, yes? I need a shower."

I wrap my arm around his waist as we turn, and walk with him back to the house. It's... actually really fuckin' sexy to see him in his armour again. It's the first time since he got here, really, and I have to stop myself from trying to drool on him. "Did you eat?"

"No, I'm starved. Did you eat?"

I shrug. "I had a salad and some pineapple, but that was hours ago, and it wasn't much. I'll make us something while you get cleaned up," I offer.

"Ah, cara, why not join me? Food is best prepared with two sets of hands, and cleaning is best done with some... assistance." He leers down at me playfully. Apparently – of course! – it didn't escape his notice how my eyes keep lingering over his shoulders, and the flash of bare thigh as we walk. Gods, that man has some legs... He could make a devout nun have ideas. The slap of leather with each step he takes, and the flexing of his forearms... how can I help it?

Really, if I'm being honest with myself – which is something I don't do often enough, I'm starting to realize – I need to be next to him. I need to feel him, just to make sure I'm not dreaming, he's really here, still with me. I blush, of course I do, and smile. "Can't argue with that logic." Much to his amusement, I giggle all the way through helping him peel off his armour, and then I'm so desperate to touch him, I'm immediately soapy-hands, as soon as the shower is warm enough for it.

He's all knots and tendons, and he groans appreciatively as I start to smooth that away just by running my hands over him. I start with his back, as he bends his head to the spray, and he puts his hands on the wall, leaning a little so I can reach everything. Rather than ask him to turn around, I press myself against his back and wrap my arms around him, craving the closeness. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on his neck as the water cascades onto my head, concentrating on the ripple of muscle and the texture of his scars under my fingertips. As my hands sink lower across his stomach, I gasp, suddenly discovering that – of course! – while I've been thinking 'solace', he's been having thoughts of a very different sort.

He hears my gasp, and chuckles darkly. I smile and tease him some, enjoying the sound of the way his breathing changes when I touch him, and the way he arches into my hand, just a fraction. I press forward, moving his head out of the spray, and grab the shampoo one-handed; he moans softly as I sink my fingers into his hair, timing my scrubbing in counterpoint to the motions of my other hand. I keep my eyes closed as the soap from his hair runs down his neck and over my cheek, and he begins to shudder just a tiny bit, his stomach muscles trembling against my arm.

I can't help it, there's no washing his hair without touching his ears, not with my eyes closed, and every time I do, his breath catches, and he pulses in my hand. Oh, if I had just coupled those movements even once when we were first together, I wouldn't have had that torture... but then again, I wouldn't have had that torture. He wouldn't have felt he needed to search me for the spot that did the same thing to me as his ears do to him. I can tell his hair is finally clean, so I let my hand drop, sliding down his neck and over his shoulder, slipping down his side and around his chest so I can hold him to me as I take a step back. The spray transfers to his head, and I reach up again, shaking the soap from his hair and pulling it back from his forehead. By now all the suds have washed away from my face, and I turn, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders.

A tremble runs through him, and he throbs again, losing another breath. I hum with happiness that my touch can do this to him; that he finds such pleasure in me never fails to flatter. Snaking my arm around him again, I go up on my toes so I can tuck my chin over his shoulder and lick the edge of his ear, making it twitch. I love how they move, so much like a cat's; he's like having a mountain lion in the house – fast, sleek, muscular, graceful, predatory, a little growly, hearing so acute I get away with nothing, and oh my, he certainly has deadly claws. As my tongue flickers across the point of his ear, he gasps and his hips jerk, his fingertips curling against the wall. I press closer still, my arm tight around his chest, and wrap my lips around that point, sucking it gently, and it flexes a little, almost like it wants to try and curl against my tongue.

He makes a strange, strangled little snarl, and a moment later I feel a hot flood across my palm. I release his ear immediately, knowing how over-sensitive they become for a few minutes, and drop down again, nuzzling into the hollow between his shoulder blades, my hand slowing to a gentle caress. He finally lets go of the wall with one hand, covering the one I've got over his heart, and pulls my fingers up to kiss them. Something so simple is far more sensuous than it would seem to be, and pulls a sigh of desire from me, but I let go of him, reluctantly, and wash my hand under the flow falling across his stomach. He reaches down and turns off the water, and we stand there a moment, but the air is chill, wet as we are, and this fact alone drives us from the shower.

When I turn toward the dresser, giving him my profile, he grabs me suddenly and pins me to the wall, kissing me passionately. I arch against him wantonly, not half-satisfied, but he is turning me loose just as quickly, and I try to catch my breath. He slaps my thigh playfully, grinning, and I see that somehow he's already got his pants on. I grab a dress at random and throw it on.

Dinner is simple; we haven't the patience for much, and both of us are starving, so we end up eating pasta with more shrimp, and some lemon, garlic, butter, fresh basil, and parmigiana. It is while we sit with the bowl between us, not bothering with separate portions, that I finally ask him. "So... Where were you? And why didn't you leave me a note?"

He laughs. "I have been corresponding with your friend Elric by email. He informed me that the Vikings practice at war every Saturday, so I joined them. I didn't leave a note, because I did not expect to be gone so long. It was not my wish to frighten you, cara." He sighs and shakes his head, and I reach out, brushing my fingertips over the back of his hand. He shakes himself, and continues. "It is a chance to wear my armour, and some of them are surprisingly good, almost as good as Alistair." I whistle. He may not have much respect for Alistair as a man, but he's never bagged on Alistair's abilities as a warrior. To compare one of the Viking Horde to him is high praise. "They fight with practice swords, ah... boffers, yes? It was great fun."

I smile. "Yeah?"

"Oh yes, cara, you should join us. I think you would enjoy it."

I shift uncomfortably. "Uh... I could come and watch, but I can't fight."

His brow furrows. "And why not?"

"Uh... Well... For one thing, I don't know how to do any of that stuff."

"But, I taught you– Oh. Right." He sighs again, his shoulders dropping momentarily, then he shrugs and smirks. "We shall just have to begin again, then."

I shift again, my eyes sliding away from his. "I... I wish I could, but... I really can't."

"What?" He reaches out, taking my chin, and turns my face back toward him, looking stern. "You stopped looking me in the eye again. What are you hiding this time?"

I can feel myself turning red, and bite my lip. Only the truth, I remind myself. You'd think that wouldn't be so hard to live up to. I mean, I've never been a liar – hell no – but I'm not used to being held accountable for just not telling what I know. I take a deep breath. "I... I can't because... well, because my spine looks like badly stacked blocks. You and I should be the same height, but it has robbed me of two inches. So, too much movement harms me greatly."

He arches an eyebrow. "You do just fine in the bedroom," he challenges, and my face is positively burning.

"Well... that helps me, actually, because of... the... you know, the movement. It... That kind of thing..." I cover my face, flustered. "It's my lower back that is the worst, and that... makes it better, actually helps it, because I'm... lying down. But I cannot do the dancing, and the bouncing, and the running. I simply can't; I'd be laid up for days, unable to walk. I have to pace myself, be gentle. You saw the night that Stalker was here, I'm not exactly toothless – I'm still flexible and strong – but I don't have it in me for actual training."

He stares at me, aghast, but recovers swiftly. "Ah. This explains much. Well, there will simply have to be more massage in your future."

I smile at that, grateful. "No complaints here," I say.

He grins. "Good, because I will not have you be in poor health so soon. We have so many years ahead of us." He frowns again, his expression changing in an instant as he sees me involuntarily flinch, and looks at me with narrowed eyes. "What?" I hesitate, and he growls. "Out with it, cara. What else?" I grimace, looking away, and he snaps his fingers at me, impatient. My gods, he must be at his wit's end with me. He's never treated me that way. Never. A few moments ago, I would've laid good money that he wouldn't, and the fact of it makes me jump a little. "Stop it. Tell me," he demands, when I look back to him in startlement. Normally, someone doing this to me would seriously piss. me. off. But... he's right. I am hiding something from him, and after all that's gone between us, he has every right to demand answers from me when I prevaricate.

Awkwardly, reluctantly, I answer him. "Uh... actually... I've only got maybe twenty years, best guess."

He stares at me, his face going slightly grey. "Twenty... years...?" he echoes hollowly, and my eyes burn. "What?" he rasps, and then clears his throat. "I thought humans could live to be near a hundred... but that's... half. What is it? Your heart? Your brain?" I wince again. Shit. This is worse than the Calling; at least if I were really a Grey Warden, I'd have thirty healthy years ahead of me that I could share with him... even if the likelihood of us having children is still the same. But this way... He's almost certain to outlive me, and I'll be leaving him again. Again.

"Both, actually... I have... an irregular heartbeat sometimes. Heart problems run in my father's line, which is why he... died. At... 42." He twitches and I hold out my hands, trying to reassure him. "Hey, hey, but, hey, he never ate many vegetables, and loved his bacon, you know, he didn't do much to take care of it, either. He smoked and drank a lot of coffee–" Shit.

Now he is glowering at me. "Cigarettes and coffee?" he asks, his voice low, soft, and dangerous. I clap both hands over my mouth, my eyes flying wide. Fuck me and my big fat mouth.

"I quit smoking! You know I quit!" He twitches again.

"And when were you going to mention the coffee, cara?" Oh, his voice: shaving strips off my skin with that silky razor's edge. Oh, gods, I hate this shit; it always feels like my heart in a vise and knives in my stomach. I close my eyes a moment and take another deep breath.

"Caffeine makes it worse," I admit. His lips thin to a hard line and he closes his eyes, turning his face to the side. He is so unnaturally still, I know it's on purpose, and that is very forbidding. "I... just didn't think of it..." I say, my voice tiny.

His eyebrows draw together and I realize that his ears are flat back against his head. "Oh, cara, have a care. We spoke of foods that sicken you when I wished to buy a melon for breakfast."

Such warning in his voice. I whimper, but I also feel a little stab of irritation. "Zev, if I avoid everything that could possibly make me sick, you'll be feeding me nothing at all but vitamin supplements and keeping me in a bubble!"

"Would it be a viable option?" he asks, looking up at me again from the corner of his eyes, and oh gods, it looks like he is actually considering it. This makes me set my own jaw.

"You... you wouldn't enslave me like that." Of this much I am certain... if nothing else.

He twitches again. "No. But if it were to keep you safe... it would be tempting." He shakes his head, rubbing the side of his nose. "Do these things, in fact, sicken you, or is it just a possibility?"

"Well... some people say that eating plain old normal food is fine, just in moderation. Then there's other people who say that vegan is the way to go, or to eat a Mediterranean diet, and others say Asian, but then there's–" I stop and take a deep breath. "Zev, there are as many types of food and diet as there are cultures in the world. Some work better than others, and I don't... I don't know which ones would help me most, or hinder me. There are a lot of things I like to eat. I like coffee, baby... I like food. Real food. Not... cardboard supplements and paste." My mouth twists at the idea of subsisting on gruel and vitamins.

He sighs, testy. "And yet you still do not give me a direct answer. Does coffee, in particular, actually sicken your heart, or does it simply hold the possibility?"

I exhale slowly. That's a direct question. Only the truth. "It... does," I admit, defeated.

He rises immediately, and heads straight for the kitchen. "Then we shall rid ourselves of it," he says, decisively, but I jump off the couch and follow along right after him.

"Hey, wait a minute, just because I can't have it doesn't mean you can't!"

"It would be cruel," he says, turning. He frowns down at me, the bag of beans already in his hand. "I refuse to do things in front of you that you cannot do."

I snort, crossing my arms under my breasts. "That's crazy talk. You do things in front of me all the time that I can't do. You pee standing up! Are you going to start sitting to pee? Or – oh, I know – you can walk on your hands. Are you going to stop doing that because I can't? Or – how about fighting? Ooh, and: you can't seem to eat lasagne without it bothering your stomach, but I can eat it! And there are no complaints!"

He blinks down at me. "Yes, but you like coffee–"

Impatient me, I interrupt. "Yes, and the only way I'll be able to get a taste of any of my apparently now-forbidden foods is via your mouth."

That gives him pause. He hefts the bag of coffee, head cocked, and I realize he's running out of arguments. "It will be a temptation for you if it is in the house."

I put my hands on my hips – he can take things away from me when it's well-fucking-warranted, like this, but I refuse to let him give up things that he can have, just because I can't. "You're in the house, and yet, I seem to manage just fine not mauling you every five seconds."

"Hmm... No... Which, now that you mention it – is a bad thing. However, I don't think we'd get much done..."

Oh, I'm wise to the ways of the subject-change now, and I'm not going to let him get away, any more than he lets me. "You know Sofia's brownies?" He nods; of course. "You love them – we all know you love them – but do you sit down with a whole pan and eat them? Sure, having them in the house is a temptation, but you don't give in more than a reasonable amount! Having coffee or honeydew or... or anything else like that in the house, is not cruelty. Honey, I'm a big girl; I do have a little self-control." I shake my head. "Besides, taking away things like that from yourself... it may not matter. Food doesn't really do much for the other half of the problem."

It's then that I realize – not that I wasn't... aware of it before, but now I really get it – this is his way of crying, his version of a break-down. He doesn't turn into a sobbing mess like I do... he tries to fix it. And oh, gods, how I wish I could be fixed. It is that flash of helplessness in his amber eyes, that glimpse of pain and anguish, that tiny little tensing of his fingers around the bag. He's saying to himself, 'If I can just gain control of the situation...' Oh baby, how I wish there were some way you could.

I reach out and lay my hand on the coffee. "Zev... please; put the coffee down," I whisper.

I see him struggling with himself. "If... If you can't... have the things you want, cara, then I can't have them either."

"Zev..." I pull the bag from him and set it down on the counter, being careful to hold his gaze. I reach up and very gently touch his cheeks, slowly moving closer, close enough that I could touch his stomach with mine, if I cocked my hips forward. "It's no good. Saying to yourself that if only you could climb into this boat with me, then you can control it, and row it wherever you want it to go..." I shrug, helplessly. "Life doesn't work that way. You know it doesn't."

For a moment he looks so young, almost like it is not the man before me, but the little boy, the day he was sold to the Crows. Oh, oh the white-hot lance of agony to my soul, to see such a look on his face. He wavers and sinks to his knees, looking up at me, my hands descending with his face. He wraps his arms around my waist and presses his cheek to my hip. I've never seen him like this. Shadows of it, yes – you can't come from a life like his or mine and not have shadows of sorrow on your soul – but not like this.

"There is nothing I can do?" He is kneeling at my feet! It is so wrong, so very wrong, it tears at me like nothing else ever could. I want to pull him off the floor, or join him; anything, not to have this man on the floor in front of me like a supplicant... I have no miracles to give him. Only me.

He is holding me so tightly, I have no way of changing either of our positions, so I let him bear my weight, as he seems to want to. "Oh, my love... Please... having joy in life – with me? That is... everything." I stroke his temples, his soft hair under my fingertips. Oh gods... this is breaking him, and I haven't even told him the half of it. "If I were to make a list of all the things in my life that I am grateful for, all the things I hold most dear, your name would be written across almost all of them, because they have come at your hands. No matter what else happens, you've given me life... and joy. That is a protection of its own sort, honey."

He swallows, hard. "How can I protect you from unconquerable foes, cara? How... how can I keep you with me?"

At that, a sob escapes me, even though I have been the calm one. "I couldn't leave you, not ever. I'll be... here," I run my fingertips across his forehead, "And here." I rest my hand over his heart. "Honey... do you know how much I learn from you? I am listening. You said 'live bravely'; you said 'take pleasure where you find it'. So we savour every moment, and don't short ourselves simply because it might gain us an extra week–"

"I would do anything for an extra week. An extra minute!" The way his fingers curl against my back is another strike of hot misery, and I shake my head, running my fingers through his hair again.

"All our minutes are extra, my love," I remind him gently. "You were headed to Antiva... by yourself... when you came here, and I was alone, and quite probably on the verge of being murdered."

He turns away suddenly, rolling his face into my stomach, but not before tears escape from his reddened eyes. "It's not enough! A thousand years isn't enough, cara. I am half Dalish... my life is so long..."

I am shocked. I just saw him, not a wonder, not a suspicion, I saw him cry. Oh, oh gods. I want to kneel with him, but he's holding to me so tightly. What can I do? There is still more to be said, or he will become so upset with me later, but this, this is why I did not speak. "Zev," I whisper, agonized, my hands stilling upon the top of his head. "I didn't want to torture you with it."

His cry is muffled, and I can see his shoulders fighting to shake in spite of his control, occasionally succeeding in wracking him with a hard tremor. "And leave me to wonder why you suddenly dropped dead? You would just leave me alone, with reports of what happened, and why, and me sitting in my own pain for the rest of my years, wondering if there was something I could have done?"

I shake my head, my own tears finally breaking free and raining down into his hair. I curl over him as much as I can, reaching for his shoulders, wishing for nothing so much as to be able to kiss him. "You want to know what you can do?"

I can feel him nodding, even as I hear him gagging on his sobs, strangling them back before they are fully born. "Yes. Anything, cara."

"Let us live our life; let us simply be. Accept what you can and cannot change, and believe me when I say that you have saved me from every foe there ever was. No matter what may make me keel over, know that you fought that invisible opponent and won, because you made me– helped me– no: you gave me a life, in spite of what stands in our way. You've done everything you can, and if I have a future at all, it's because of you. Life has only held life since I've been with you. I know you won't let demons of any shape or size rob me of any joy."

I can see him struggling to collect himself, and I know he's doing his best. His voice is thick, but he makes the effort. "We should get some honeydew next time we go to the store.. so long as you promise to kiss me after every other bite," he offers, rubbing the muscles in the back of his neck. I push my fingers under his and rub at it myself. I know he'll be okay, I know we'll be okay. Gods, this was why I didn't want to tell him. I just hadn't known, hadn't... expected that he would... fall apart. And here I had thought our other big conversations were bad... but this... this one made me die a little, inside, and I want... we need that spark of life back.

"Oh, baby, that sounds like the best breakfast I've never had. Better save it for a storm, 'cause I'm pretty sure it's gonna take us hours to eat it."

He is so soft, so gentle with me in bed later that he makes me cry again, and I spend half the night not sleeping, just clinging to his side with my head tucked under his chin as he strokes my hair. He is still with me in the morning, even though the sun shines brightly through the curtains, and I revel in the rare occurrence of his presence. I stretch, still stuck in the position I fell asleep in, but I cannot complain, as I am pressed tightly to his side with my face nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. I fit so perfectly against him, as though I were made specifically to fill that space. "Mmmh... Buona mattina, dolcezza," he murmurs sleepily. "What time is it?"

I lift my head, reluctantly, and strain upward until I can read the clock. "Ehhh... It's after ten," I reply, nuzzling back into that warm hollow.

He starts. "What? Merda! Get up, get up; I haven't much time before Jack will be here to get me. If we wish to eat breakfast, we must be quick." He is already rolling from the bed, and I sigh, burying my face in his pillow.

"Mmmh... No fair. You're almost never in bed with me in the morning; I can count the number of times on one hand, in fact," I mumble, muffled by the pillow.

He tugs it away from me, leaning down, and smooths the hair from my face. "This is important to you?" he asks, and I see that he's already dressed. How does he do that?

I nod. "As much as I love waking up to food and coffee in the mornings, as much as I appreciate how you spoil me with it, nothing compares to waking up next to you." I reach up and twine my fingers through his, and he gives me serious eyes.

"Duly noted, cara." He looks at me for a moment longer, then smiles and yanks the covers from me. I gasp, squeaking as the frigid air hits my skin, and curl up in a ball. He laughs and slaps my ass just to make me squeak again. "Now, get up. I shall go make chai."


	14. Girl Side of the Force

There is an uneasy sort of silence between us for the next day and a half. We talk about things, mostly philosophy and zombie apocalypse conjecture, but we talk. We just don't... talk. I know what's going on, though. He's looking for his own sort of grip on the situation, and I see all kinds of articles from health forums around the world in the browser history. Sunday, he guts the kitchen, and I'm apparently going to be eating an Antivan diet from now on (see note at bottom), which is completely different from the more Western way I've eaten all my life. Seems to be a... Mediterranean, kinda Spanish thing. It's all new, but I've always been adventurous when it comes to eating, and I can't argue with the taste. Besides, I get to keep mushrooms and artichokes, so everything else is negotiable.

Monday, after lunch, instead of going out to the shop, I pick up my box of family photos and sit down next to him on the couch. "Zev," I say, softly, and he looks up from the book he's got his nose in. I've broken our routine, and he is a little surprised. His brows furrow as his eyes drop to the box in my hands.

"Eh? What is that?"

I open it, and show him the first picture on top. "This is me, and my little sister Erin, when she was a baby. I'm five, in this photo..." He leans over, laying his book aside, and takes it from my hand, looking at it intently. Sorting through the pictures, I methodically begin to lay out the members of my family on the coffee table, transferring books and piles of notes to the floor around it as I go. My mother, my father, my aunts and uncles, my siblings and cousins, my grandparents, and my great-grandma, listing off all their health problems, and all their causes of death, where it applies. Diabetes, Parkinson's, bad hearts, Alzheimer's, cancer, communicable diseases; bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia, depression. Some of them have extenuating circumstances – for instance, my grandfather got his Parkinson's from exposure to DDT and other chemicals he encountered during WWII, and his brother went schizophrenic from all the drugs he took.

Zev listens carefully, studying the faces, watching me, and I know he isn't missing a thing. He's calculating odds in his head, the despair being sublimated by determination. "Some of this, it was just the times," I say. "Medicine hadn't caught up to these things. I'm not going to catch tuberculosis, like cousin Annabelle," I say, pointing to one of my great-grandma's nieces, "because I've got immunity to it."

He wraps an arm around my waist, looking grim, and I lean in to kiss the side of his neck. "Baby, I know it's hard, and you've already lost me once, but we have a second chance here; we have the chance to live the life we only talked about, the first time. We get what anyone gets: we get a lifetime," I say, paraphrasing Neil Gaiman.

Nothing escapes his notice; I defended my mobility in bed, and so in bed is where I shall have it, apparently. After Wednesday, I start thinking I've had too much and I'm going to tell him 'no' next time, and then I just... don't remember I decided that, until... afterwards. I keep thinking that I've had so much that it's just not going to work next time. I don't understand it; every time he puts his hands on me, I'm just lost, and it's like he's the one with the map – nothing I can do but follow him.

It's absolutely crazy how upside-down my life has turned in eight months. It's a good thing I'm good at rolling with the punches, 'cause... gods, he's intense. Life rushes by at a hundred miles an hour.

Saturday night, I pin him down on the bed, and show him my packet of birth control pills for the next month. I've been thinking about this all week. He's right. I'm likely to leave him again, definitely before either of us is ready for it... and then he'll just be cast adrift in a life where I was his only anchor. He'd crawl into the grave with me. There has to be a reason for him to keep going, once I'm gone, and I'm not getting any younger.

"Why do you give me this?" he asks, turning the plastic over in his hands.

"That's the next pack. I start them tonight."

"Yes?" He looks at me, confused.

"I don't want to take them anymore."

He frowns, looking at me for a moment. "I thought you said... that you may not be able to...?"

I nod. "I might not."

Zev passes the pack from hand to hand, tracing the little vacuum-sealed buttons with his thumbs as he thinks. He holds it between his fingers, and it looks so small in his hand. "It is strange that something so tiny can prevent a man's seed from taking," he muses, then glances up at me. "_Cara_, whether we can or cannot... that does not matter. I never requested for you to take these precautions. I abided by your decision on it, and this too, I shall abide by."

I cock my head, chewing my lip. "I didn't want to just... spring it on you. It's your choice, too."

He runs his fingers down the outside of my ear; catching the earring between them, he turns it. "Did I not ask if you wished to spend a lifetime with me? To possibly make a life between us, in all the ways two people can?"

I nod, turning my face into his hand, automatically. Trust... trust. Here I am. "This is me, trying to do that."

Zev smiles, tossing the packet into the waste-basket – his aim is dead-on, of course, even though he's not looking – and I hear it plop to the bottom. "Then let us see how strong my seed truly is; let us find out if it can overcome such varied obstacles... And if it cannot, then it will not be for lack of trying."

And, oh. Oh-hohoho. Oh my gods. We are apparently trying very, very hard.

The full moon of July comes and goes, and I am not pregnant. I try not to take this as a bad sign, even though I know that getting pregnant the first month off birth control is low odds, and he laughs at me. "Even healthy women with perfect fertility do not always get pregnant the first month, _cara_. You are so impatient!"

And so another two weeks tick by; I sell the vanity and the sideboard, a stand mirror, a set of a dozen cups commissioned for someone's wedding feast, two hand mirrors, a toy-box, a child's table and two benches. It turns out that most of my pieces of furniture need... thorough testing... before they can be sent out. Gods, it's like he's always touching me. I am surrounded by a cloud of his scent. I don't know how I ever get anything done, but somehow I'm more productive in between. I guess I feel like I have to hurry before he shows up again and I get lost in a haze of hands and breath.

The third Saturday of July, Sofia comes to visit me. When she arrives, I'm sitting on the beach, carving chess pieces. I've got almost the entire white fish army finished. Something else for someone's wedding. Summertime. I always love wedding season, because I sell so many pieces, and it's all I can do to keep up with it. It's good when I've got something to occupy my hands.

She sits down next to me in the sand; I'm propped up behind my shop, staring out at the far line of waves and picking at the tail on one of the prawn/pawns. "Chess sets are hard," I say, totally bored with carving prawns.

She picks up a finished prawn-pawn and turns it over in her fingers. "These are really cool," she says. She dusts some sand off the sketchbook at my side. "Black army is gonna be tropical, huh?"

I shrug. "Heat is the natural enemy of the cold-water fish," I say, grinning. "It works, because he's from California, and she's from here; it's for a wedding. Picked it up at renfaire last weekend. Sold a whole box of toys, too."

"Another commission, eh?" She tucks the piece back into my basket and looks at me, askance. "Got a lot of wedding work this summer?"

I scowl. "I cannot believe how many things I've had to make that are multiples this year. I must've turned forty cups. Time at the studio using the lathe is not cheap, even if I do have a deal with the instructor and the principal at the high school. I guest-teach for a week during summer-school, once a year, and Brett takes his wife to Seattle for a week's vacation."

She smirks. "Ah, Seattle: the destination of choice for the not-exactly-solvent hipster/metro-sexual dink swinger couple. But... you didn't hear that from me."

I laugh. "Anyway, since it scratches his back, and I pay enough to replace anything that breaks, the principal agreed to let me use the lathe in the off-hours after school's out, until 6 or 7."

"That's a hell of a lot of cups," she agrees.

I sigh. "I'm sick of cups. No more cups."

She nods, solemnly. "Well, it's good that you've got chess then," she ventures cautiously, and I smile. "You gonna paint them?"

"Nah. Got some dark wood for the black army. Might do like... a metallic band around the bases. Dunno. Good idea, colour. Hmmm..." A chunk suddenly comes off the back of the tail at exactly the right angle, and I realize that another prawn is finished. "Ugh. Just one more prawn. I'm so tired of prawns."

"Prawn pawns. Ha! Clever. It'll be awesome when it's done," she says, decisively, and I nod.

"I know. I'm just stuck in the jungle of the middle of it. So what's up?"

"I had to bring over some paperwork and stuff for Zev, and I thought I'd do some... research. You're my guinea pig." She smiles wickedly, and I frown.

"What." My voice is so flat, it's not a question.

"Well, you've seen my costuming stuff, right? Well, I've decided that your usual garb is getting shabby, and you don't do nearly enough to pretty yourself up, anyway. So, as your best friend, I've appointed myself your official fairy garb-mother. I'm trying to make you something for Autumn War, and I have to fit it on you. Problem is, I can't do that without showing you what it is, right? But I don't want you to see it until it's done, just in case it goes badly and I have to start over or something. I want it to be a surprise. So... I brought this." I arch an eyebrow, and she grins, producing a blindfold.

I groan. "Noooo... Really? A blindfold?" She nods.

"'Fraid so."

I sigh, getting to my feet. "All right." I stuff everything in my basket and sling it over my shoulder. "Lead on." I close my eyes and put my hand on her shoulder. "I won't look. I know this game well."

She pauses. "Kinky," she says, and I laugh.

She leads me back to the house, and into the living room. I actually know exactly where we are... Sometimes Zev and I get bored and so we play these games where we run around the house blindfolded in the dark, and... Anyway. It stopped being funny the night he moved a chair, and now it's war. Even when I lose, I win. I like that game. She says, "Stay here, and keep your eyes closed." I wait, and listen to her run out to the Hearse o' Doom, rummage around, and come back in with a large parcel. Then I hear her close the curtains. "Okay, woman, strip," she says, and I laugh.

I toss my flannel and my jeans on the chair, and I hear her gasp. "Hey. You're peeking," she accuses, and I laugh again.

"Nope. Just know where the chair is."

"Hmmm... Nope, don't trust ya." She ties the blindfold around my face anyway, and I laugh again. "Okay, now hold still."

I hear her rummage in some tissue paper, and then I smell Amarinth. "Hey," I say, and she shushes me with a hand over my mouth.

"No. No questions, no comments. Just hold still."

I feel... light silk... a chemise with... long sleeves. Dagged. Something on the edges weighs it down. There's three layers of this gauzy silk chemise; the second one has elbow-length sleeves, and the third one has drapes. I can smell the Amarinth on it, but it's like... it's the actual spices, not my perfume. I love it. There's... some kind of heavy lace on the sleeve cuffs. It comes down over my hands. "Nrr... I'll have to take that up," she mutters, and I turn my face.

"No, no, don't take it off the back of my hand. I like that."

"Oh, that's right. Shirts down to your fingertips. Fine. I'll leave it. Except for... well..." And then... heavy fabric... a brocade, maybe – no, muslin, and something else, something that whispers; taffeta, silk, organza...? A bodice... Laces. Oh, gods, no, it's a corset. I bite my lip. I've never had a custom corset. It's got steel in it. Steel!

In no time, she's got the dresses off me again, and is stuffing everything back into its packaging. "Okay, put your clothes back on. I'll be outside."

"So, planning on taking me over and bringing me to the girl side of the Force, hmm?" I ask as she re-enters. I am opening the curtains.

"Uh... You can take the blindfold off," she says. I smile and toss it to her. She shakes her head when I look at her through slitted eyes. "And yes, that's it exactly. I got this certificate from Roxy as my maid-of-honour pay check, and it's a day at the spa for two – she wanted me to take you, as a thank-you for helping plan the wedding. So, I know how you are about people touching your feet, but I swear this isn't just some strip-mall mani/pedi place. This is the real deal. Look." She tugs a little brochure out of her bag, and I look it over. "The sky's the limit with this; we got the deluxe package, baby. Mud baths, massages, being carried around, cucumbers on your eyelids, the works. We'll be treated like _queens_."

I hesitate, and she arches an eyebrow at me. "You want me to let people _touch_ me," I say, pleading with her.

"I'll tell you what. We'll go there, and if you're not happy, I'll see if they'll let us do it ourselves, okay? Then we're just kinda paying for the place to be there and use their stuff, instead of paying the staff. But I am still getting a massage for _me_. And!" She points at me and fixes me with a fierce eye. "You're letting them do your hair, nails, and make-up. You can't be all jeans and t-shirts, all the time. Do you know you almost always wear black? You _will_ be girly, dammit, just for one day! I'm even going to make you wear a dress!"

I throw my hands up in surrender and laugh. "Okay, okay." She grins hugely.

"Good, because we're going next weekend."

I am super-busy this week, finishing up the chess set and prepping a set of nesting tables for shipping, as well as making an entire set of four stools for the bar table I did last summer. Burning the knot-work into the top takes even more time, and by Thursday, I'm scrambling to get everything finished in time to ship it Friday.

Saturday, I spend all day at the spa with Sofia. I let her convince me to eat a brownie in the parking lot, and I have to admit, it does a lot for my nerves. We get this one chick named Annie who promises to be with us, all day. I let her put me in a mud bath, and then I let Sofia convince me that it would be a good idea to have my legs waxed, which hurts like hell. There's some kind of milk bath, during which I reluctantly submit to the expertise of this woman who swears up and down she knows how to do this strange cream thing to my face that will smooth it out and get rid of all the blemishes and stuff.

"Don't touch her throat," Sofia warns, and I'm grateful to her, because I don't always think to tell people these things. Nobody touches my throat. Ever. I sigh and lean back in the tub, with the promised cucumbers over my eyes. Annie takes her leave, promising to return in fifteen minutes.

"So, Jack's nephew came over the other day, stayed for the weekend, right? He's seventeen, and he brought his Xbox along. I was in the kitchen making sandwiches and tea, and I heard Zevran in the front room. Now, I had something I'd intended to ask him the next time I saw him, so I went in there, and you know what? It was coming out of the TV."

I swallow. "And?"

"I watched him interact with this character for a while, and you know what else? The more this character talked, the more I heard things that Zev says come out of his mouth. In the same voice. And it wasn't like... entire sentences, but..." She pauses, and I hold my breath. "Elric says, oh, Zev's just a hardcore cosplayer, you know, does the whole bit, but... The more I get to know him, the more I think that he wouldn't bother obsessing over something as trivial as a game. He's got too many other pursuits."

Oh, oh that's low. It's my obsessing that brought him here in the first place.

"Also, no cosplayer would be in character a hundred percent of the time. Nor do I see any of them actually getting tattooed _on the face_. All that's not to even mention the fact that his ears move around when his moods change. Lily, you know I'm not crazy, but I'm also not one to deny the evidence of my senses. You were there the night the cat randomly bi-located."

That was a weird night. We were not on anything intoxicating, not at all; we were too young for that. We were in eighth grade, and I was sleeping over at her house when we both watched her cat cross the living room and go out the back door – twice. From the bedroom to the cat door, and then out of the bedroom to the cat door again. Not two cats, the same cat. No open window, no other explanation, and this was about four or five years before 'The Matrix' came out. "I know we don't talk about that, either, and that's exactly my point. What I need to know, right now, is this: is the question of where Zev really comes from something else we don't talk about, for pretty much the same reason?"

I sigh. "Yes. That's exactly it."

I can almost hear the frown in her voice. "Is that sarcastic?"

"I wish it was. He just washed up on my beach last fall. I got the game on pre-order and played it, without looking anything up. It has love interests, and Zev was mine. I was playing another elf, and there was just... something about him. He seemed a hundred percent real to me, from the very beginning. He was a puzzle, and every conversation with him was difficult, because he was too keen, too logical, too... literal sometimes, but so very opaque. He was easy to touch, but hard to get to know. He wore his sexuality like armour, and accepting him, physically, was kind of a trap. It took me a long time to get to know him well, but... by the end of the game, I loved him. And there's this really poignant moment where he gives an earring, as a token of how he feels about you. It's an extremely pivotal action; it changes everything. That's the moment where he shows you that he's not just yours by oath, but by design.

"At the end of the game, you have several choices. I went into this game blind. I didn't know what was going to happen. There's a choice you can make at the end, to make your brother-in-arms go into the arms of a woman he finds repellent and betray your order just to make sure you all survive. There are three Wardens, and one has to die in order to slay the dragon at the end. The eldest of us said he'd take the blow, so I wasn't worried. I told the witch I wasn't going to sacrifice Alistair to her, and went forward with the assault on Denerim, the capital city. You end up having to leave most of your people behind, and they want you to pick a general for that portion of your party. So, I left Alistair, my brother, there to lead my people and guard the gate, and I took Zevran with me, as well as, our healer, Wynne, and Sten, one of the tanks.

The problem is... If you don't accept Morrigan's help, and you leave Alistair at the gate, then it's you who has to die. I didn't know this, you see. In the cutscene right before you head up to the final battle, Riordan, the eldest Warden, falls off the back of the dragon, failing to kill it, and lands on the ground in a broken heap. There's no option to tell any of your companions anything; it's all a Warden secret. So I went up to the roof, and slew the dragon, and saved the day, but I died. Like so many fangirls, I wrote the entire story down, but I did it in a diary I had been keeping about it since I first started. I filled in gaps in the personal storyline as I went along, making stuff up, making it better for myself. It was fun. Right until the end."

There is a silence, and I say, "What? I do that with all my rpgs. It's fun. Anyway, I finished writing the last page, the ending where I died, on the second day the power had been out, during that storm. I'd spent several days in a tangled ball of agony, being crazy over something so frivolous as a video game, but the idea of my own death scene, and the image of Zev, with me lifeless in his arms, in agony, mourning? It tore me up; I stressed myself out so bad I threw up. It was like it really happened to me. I can't even tell you how bad I was; it was horrible. And then? The big storm: we were in the eye of it, and I looked out the kitchen window to see someone laying face down on the beach."

"Just like that?"

"It sounds delusional and stupid when you lay it all out, but... Yeah, just like that. I went out there and dragged him back to the house with me, thinking he was a castaway or something, and only realized who he was once I finally got him into the firelight."

"I don't see how that's even possible."

"Tell me about it," I say, sighing.

"Did he know you?"

"I named my character 'Lily', and gave her my same profile. So... yes. Eventually."

"How much time passes in the game?"

"Ah... depends on who you talk to. The wiki says about one year, but I just can't see it, with all the travelling you have to do, so I posit about two years."

"So that's why he says 'almost three years' and you say 'almost a year' when I asked you two how long you've been together." She sighs, aggravated. "You know and I know that there's weird shit out there. Remember who I worship? Loki? God of chaos and fire and all that goes boom for fun? He who plays tricks on the very gods themselves? The true hero of lost causes? C'mon! You know I'd believe this, you know I'd never think you were crazy for that, not with what you and I both know..."

"Shit."

"Yeah, you're not as sneaky as you think. Jack and I have been talking about it, and he says sometimes Zev seems out of place, in very strange ways. He told me about this day when he took Zev to Thai, and Zev didn't know what to do with the noodles, even though Jack asked him beforehand if he _liked_ Thai. He just sat there for a second, staring at the bowl, before going off to the jakes." I laugh.

Annie returns, washes our faces, has us transfer to couches, and wraps our feet in this crazy lotion fabric stuff; I don't really understand it, but there's steam involved, and once she assures me that she won't be putting her actual hand on my actual foot, I agree to let her do it.

"He called me from the bathroom and told me they had 'done something strange to the noodles', and he didn't know what to do with himself, because they gave him two sticks to eat with," I tell Sofia, picking up the thread of the conversation.

Sofia laughs as Annie begins working on her nails. "What did you tell him?"

"Ah, I didn't mess with him. The consequences of that are awful, for more than one reason; he doesn't let me protect him much, but I do what I can. So I said, 'ask for a fork, some of their tea with milk in it, and if it's too spicy, ask for more bean sprouts and lime or some sliced cucumber'."

"Did he do that?"

"I think so, but he wouldn't get a fork. He insisted I tell him how to use the chopsticks, so I tried to describe it for him, but I ended up having to text him a video. I know his hands are capable of it; I'm sure it didn't take him long to get the hang of it. Anyway, I didn't hear anything else about it, so I guess it went well."

Sofia snorts. "I dunno; I guess so. Plus, you know, now that I think of it, Jack said they had 'some weird conversation', but Jack didn't press him, and he wouldn't tell me what it was about. He figures we all got secrets, I guess. I told him that he should trust his gut, which he always does. We both trust you - you _and_ Zev. It's just a little crappy that you felt you couldn't trust _us_."

"Oh, just punch me in the heart, why don't you. It's not really my secret, it's his, so it wasn't about trust so much as respect. If he didn't feel like sharing, how was it my place? I trust you, I really do – both of you – and I think I've been demonstrating that in every way I can, lately."

Annie ducks out to fetch a tray of nail polish. Sofia sighs and nods. "I know, but it just sorta sucks. We love you both to pieces. He's the big brother I never had, and you're the sister of my heart. I don't think Jack's ever had any 'real' guy friends. He's always been too straight-laced for his own good, and once he became The Law, everyone tends to be frightened off by that, as if he's The Law all the damned time."

I snort. "Well, look, what was I supposed to say? 'By the way, my boyfriend is actually a character from a video game, stepped straight off the screen and come to life, and p.s. I'm not crazy'?"

"Well noooo, but... Oh, I don't know!" She sighs in exasperation. "I mean, to me you could have. Or you could have just, like – I don't know – sat me down and said that you needed me to trust you and that you were fairly sure you weren't crazy. And then shown me the game yourself? Oh, ugh, never mind. I just, you know, sometimes people have to call each other on their shit, and that's what we do for each other... you know?"

"I do. I really, really do. I didn't know how to broach the subject, honestly. No one asked me how we met or where he came from, so I just let it lie. I figured you'd get around to it, eventually."

Annie returns, and Sofia selects a very pretty shade of blue-green metallic, then cocks her head to the side, looking at me. "So, if he's your boyfriend, how come he says he's your husband?" Sofia asks, her voice deceptively casual. Calling me on my shit, apparently.

I swallow. Oh, shit, here we go. "Uh. Well... It's because he is, actually. I'm still not used to it."

She growls under her breath. "You didn't invite me to the wedding?"

"We... didn't have one. We just... sort of... decided," I say, shifting uncomfortably.

"Well, when's your anniversary, then?"

"Uh... He got here November 11th... so... the 12th."

"You just decided to be his wife, the day after you met him?" Sofia asks, shocked.

"Uh... Technically, I knew him for two years before that, remember? We're kinda... different."

She sighs. "Don't I know it. Well... there's certain... different things about him that Jack is to never know about. At least not... officially. You understand?"

I snort. "Psh. Like I'm a secret-spiller."

"I know that!" She sounds exasperated. "But you know what I mean. You're going to have to be _careful_."

"Believe me, I know. It's hard _not_ to keep that in mind," I say, sighing.

"Jack will need to know how careful he has to be about certain things, and what he may have to warn Zev about, too, y'know... but... this would explain why you both were so careful to imply that you were the one to... you know... do that... service to humanity, even though you know, I know, and Jack knows who really did what had to be done that night. The law woulda understood, but they still would have looked at him too closely."

"Yeah. We didn't want that because it's all just a house of cards."

She holds up a hand. "I don't wanna know! You know how I get when I get into the 'truth serum', and that's one thing I will always have to keep from Jack, even though he'll know, but so long as it's not said aloud, he won't be obligated to do anything."

"So noted. Well, so, there you have it. Zev is an impossible thing, and I'm trying to hang on to him any way I can. I'm sorry I didn't know how to tell you, before."

"Oh girly, it's all right; you know I love you, so don't worry about it. I just, I wanted to make sure that by the end of the day everything was fully on the table. New life to look forward to and all that good stuff."

I don't quite understand what she means by 'new life', but let it lie, because we've already said way too much in front of a simple spa employee. I'm pretty sure she missed all the parts we meant to keep secret, though. Maybe Sofia is talking about the idea of making me more girly. Welcome to my new, girly existence. I snort again. I watch how professional she is, and I'm relaxed enough at this point that I decide I don't really care, and let Annie do my nails, too. "French," Sofia directs.

Somehow, it turns out to be dinner time, so someone sends a platter of meats, cheeses, fruits, and crackers along, and a couple bottles of muscat. I'm all about the wine, oh my gosh, it's so sweet. I love it. After two glasses of that, I don't really care that Annie is brushing my hair and making it pretty. After the fourth glass, I don't care that she's doing my make-up, either. "Peacock eyes," Sofia mumbles.

Sofia spends almost an hour getting a massage from a really, _really_ cute guy while I get my hair done. I'm almost tempted, but then I get this overwhelming flash of sensory memory: Zev's hands, sliding up my shoulders and tangling in my hair, his breath hot on my neck, and his voice murmuring in my ear, _Lily, cara mia..._, and just like that, I can't. I can't let that guy touch me; the very idea suddenly, and quite literally, makes me want to vomit with revulsion. The feeling is shocking to me; I've never reacted this way before, at all, ever. I've always been able to accept a massage, and regarding other men, at least entertain the notion, but not anymore, apparently.

It's getting close to sunset when we run out of our long list of things to do, and we head back to the little room we got undressed in. "Now," she says, as soon as the door is shut. "Stand still and close your eyes; it's dress time."

I smile and do as I'm bid, waiting patiently while she does up the laces, fusses with the sleeves, and straightens the skirts. "Is this my Autumn War dress?"

"Yep! I thought we'd give it a trial run and see how it holds up against Zevran. If it's still in one piece tomorrow, you should be okay for a whole event." She giggles, and I echo her.

"How do I look?" I ask, hearing her circle around front again.

"Like a goddess. You can look at it, now." I open my eyes and look down. There are three layers of chemise, all in shades of emerald; the inside layer is a dark china silk, the second layer is a medium shade, mottled and dip-dyed, and the top layer is a sheer, pale, silky organdy. The three skirt layers interact, showing hints and peeks of each colour, and the sleeves are of the three lengths I noted before, allowing the different colours to be apparent. The bodice itself is made of a heavy silk in the same colour as the under-dress, and just enough of it to bear up my breasts, leaving the dresses to fall over my stomach and hips naturally. I can barely see it for the way that it pops up my cleavage in a rather frightening way.

"Uh, are you sure I won't fall out of this...?"

Sofia laughs at me. "No, no way. It's built for you, and it shows. I told you: you look like a goddess. Now, come on, let's get you home so your man can molest you."

"I thought there was a corset involved," I muse, toeing my shoes on. "I felt spiral steel boning."

"Oh, yeah, that's still in the works; I meant to have it finished, but it gave me unexpected difficulties. It'll be ready for Autumn War, but I wanted to see how the dresses fly, in the meantime."

"Hey, wait, don't I at least get to look in a mirror first?" I protest, as she takes my arm and leads me out.

"Nope," she chirps happily. "If I let you look, you'll be too self-conscious to leave the building. So come on."

This does nothing to reassure me, but I let her put me in the Hearse o' Doom and drive me home.

.:o: Oh gods, my shopping list: Rice, potatoes, poultry, fish and shellfish, sausages, tomatoes, onions, lentils, artichokes (love!), spinach, basil, cucumber, zucchini – gods, everything green – mushrooms (yay!), squash, eggplant, chickpeas (oh, hummus!), pineapple!, lemons, limes, oranges, grapes, apples, figs, dates, cherries, strawberries, blueberries, pears, pomegranates (.:cheers:.), grape-seed oil, olive oil, honey, asiago cheese, yoghurt (oh, Greek yoghurt .:raptures:.), pistachios, hazelnuts, almonds, and wine. All this is not even to mention how the flavours change as he packs my spice cabinet, and it suddenly holds far larger quantities of saffron, turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, black pepper, and coriander. He completely took over my kitchen! It's like learning to cook all over again. Wow, no complaints from me, seriously.


	15. La Promessa

As we come around the hairpin turn at the top of the road to my house, I can see out over the beach, and someone's having a bonfire party. That would explain why there are a bunch of trucks and vans parked down the side of the road. Gods, I hope it's not frat boys again; all these cars look all shiny and new, and there're several white suv's. Gods grant me patience. I can hear the music and smell some kind of roasted meat in the air. Ah, hedonism. I head for the house, but it's dark. "Maybe he's gone down to the fire," Sofia offers, and I nod.

"Likely. Let's go see." Coming around a bend in the tall sea-grass, stuck between two dunes, there is a tableau I did not expect. Zev is standing there with Jack and a woman I don't know, with two tiki torches illuminating a patch of ground in front of them. Sofia moves past me as I hover there, intimidated into motionlessness, and stands to the other side of the unfamiliar woman.

"Lily Maxwell," the woman intones, pointing to the place between Sophia and Zev, and my heart clenches. I join him swiftly, needing to be next to him just to not feel lost at sea.

He's wearing this doublet that is in the same shades of green I'm wearing, and it has all this intricate embroidery over the edges. We're dressed similarly. What is going on? Oh, but I know, and I am suddenly terrified. "Place your hand on this blade," the priestess commands, and I lay my hand across the flat of it. "Swear you now, before the gods, to tell the truth in its entirety, as you know it to be, and nothing else."

"I do so swear," I say, my voice gone quiet with the fear of this, of what's happening next. She leaves the dagger where it is, so I leave my palm on it.

"Who is this man next to you?" she asks, dead serious.

I swallow. "Zev – Zevran Ar- Moreno," I say, trying to answer her. I can't tell the whole truth about this, not even though I have sworn it in front of the gods. _Arainai_, I finish, in my head, hoping it is enough. What I wouldn't give to take that name instead.

"And who is he to you, to your life?" she prompts.

"He's my..." I look up at him and drown in his eyes. I want nothing so much right now as to get rid of everyone around us so I can press myself to him, so I can kiss him and feel his hands across my back, so I can see once more that heated look I put into his eye. My tongue sticks to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. "...husband," I whisper, never having put a label to him before, out loud. This word has never crossed my lips. Something changes in his eyes, something darkens, something to do with that little possessive streak he has. His hand is warm and solid over mine as she asks him the same questions, in turn.

"Who is this woman next to you?"

My heart is hammering in my chest; I can hardly breathe. He holds my gaze, unwavering, as he names me and calls me 'wife' – in front of witnesses, no less – only the second time he has said this word at all, and it makes me weak in the knees. A flock of butterflies take flight in my stomach and become trapped behind my breasts.

She withdraws the dagger.

He curls his hand around mine, our fingers weaving together, holding them between us as the woman speaks of truth and trust, communication and understanding. His palm is hot, and I can feel the strength in his fingers, the steel of his wrist against mine. This is happening, this is real; I cannot tear my eyes away from the man I am being tied to – legally, symbolically, and literally – for the rest of my life. She binds our hands together with a woven silk cord: three wraps and a knot.

She speaks of dreams, desires, and love. She speaks of faithfulness, being steadfast and strong, bearing each other through times of strife. My answers are impatient, automatic; it seems so obvious. Of course, of course. I do so swear to be his woman, until the end of my life.

Three wraps, and another knot. I do so swear to protect him all I can, to love him with every fibre of my soul, to stand with him against all that may come, and to let him carry me when I cannot stand on my own. This, I think, is an important clause that will have been put in by him. Loyalty, honesty, respect. I do so swear. After every statement, he is repeating with me, I do so swear.

Three wraps, and a final knot, and there is a moment of silence, like the entire world holding its breath... or maybe it's just me. Nine wraps, three knots; three times three and bound by three – we are handfast.

_Husband._ The word echoes around and around in my head, making me dizzy as it attaches itself to the face before me.

"By the powers vested in me by the gods and the State of Washington..." she begins, but I am already in his arms. Our bound hands press between us as he pulls me to him, and finally, _finally_, I get my wish, clinging to him tightly as his mouth descends to mine, claiming me. I am drunk with happiness. Here, this is the switch to flip, this is the marker that puts me firmly into 'wife' territory. I knew it before, but I did not feel it, not really. I was his, have always been his, but I never thought of myself with the label of 'wife', of him with the label of 'husband', not for us, not to me, even though he told me this was how it is to be – but now it is impossible to escape.

When I open my eyes, breathless and stunned, we are alone between the torches. His eyes are so dark, it makes my heart stutter, and I reach up, cupping his cheek in my hand. Something determined fires in his eyes, and he turns, ducking under our arms, and pulls me up onto his back. I squeak and laugh, clinging to him with my free arm, my legs too hampered by my skirt to really help much.

"Where are we going?"

"Into the house." He is at the front door in moments, his long strides surprising me even now, and he carries me like I am no weight at all. He kicks the door shut behind him and rolls his shoulder forward so I tumble off, but his free arm is already coming around to catch me, and I've learned by now to just go boneless. He'd never drop me. "These things require... consummation," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my neck, the soft spot beneath my ear, and I am melting into him. He staggers toward the couch and we barely make it; he turns, landing on the cushions, and I fall across his lap and into his kiss, kicking off my shoes.

His hand is sliding up my thigh as I cover his face and neck in kisses, whispering in a desperate rush, punctuated by gasps and prayers to whatever deity might be listening. "_Zev, oh gods, Zev, I love you, I love you so much. I missed you, all day, oh gods, and there was this man giving Sofia a massage, and they asked me if I wanted one, and all I could think of was your hands, your hands; I couldn't let him touch me. The thought of it just made me sick. Nobody else, nobody, not ever, only you, oh gods, please, only you."_

A couple of months ago, when he first decided that I needed to be tagged at least twice a day, I learned that the only panties I was going to keep in one piece would be those that tied on the sides, and I find myself grateful for that revelation particularly now, as he tugs them free in one quick motion and tosses them carelessly aside. My fingers fumble at the laces on his pants as he finishes pushing my skirt out of the way; I can feel him hard and thick against the inside of my thigh, and no matter how he tries to teach me differently, I am ever impatient. I want him, so badly, and have ever since the moment when my body rather adamantly rejected the idea of another man's hands on me.

So I cheat. I wrap my lips around the edge of his ear and run my tongue all the way up the outside of it, from lobe to tip. The flexing of his ear against my lips never fails to surprise me. The gasp and the little moan I am rewarded with are the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard; the way his stomach muscles jump, the way he shudders under me, the greatest compliment he could ever bestow. He _loves_ me, he _wants_ me, he desires _me_. Oh, gods, I am blessed, so blessed. I finally free him, whimpering as my fingers close around that thickness once more. He is like an addiction; my body is almost constantly crying out for him when we are apart. His face in my cleavage and his hand between my thighs have me writhing against him wantonly. He cries out again as I lick the inside of his ear, and it finally pushes him over the edge, pushes him into the same state of impatience that I constantly occupy.

The fingers of my bound hand flex tightly against his as he pulls my hips forward to meet him. I arch for him, my head thrown back, his name torn from my mouth in a full-throated wail as he fills me suddenly, completely. Oh, nothing has ever felt so right as this, the most shiningly perfect moment of my life. "Lily... Ah... Lily _mia, mia regina, mia ragazza; sì, amora mia, sei irresistibile. Mi piace sentirti fremere di piacere, sentirti gridare il mio nome, solo per me. Solo per me_ Lily, _dolcezza, mia moglie, la mia donna... Sei mia, solo mia; appartieni a me, a nessun altro,(1)_" he murmurs, a steady stream of Italian that grows more and more breathless – half of it I've never even heard before; I have no idea what he's saying with such intensity – and I watch in amazement as he closes his eyes and actually groans.

Oh gods, I'm doing it right. I fight to keep my own eyes open, watching him with awe as I try to maintain the sway of my hips; I curl my legs around his waist tightly, clinging, holding to him, but I'm going to falter, I can feel it. I can't help it; he always brings me so quickly. "Zev– Zev, I–" I pant in warning, but he knows, because he wraps his arm around my waist and rolls upward against me, taking over the motion. I cannot stop it now: my eyes close, and I sob as the fire burns hotter and hotter with every thrust. I shudder and cry out as a particularly hard spasm rocks me, bowing my back, and he gasps as well. Oh, oh the flex of his hands, the tremors of his stomach against mine, how they make me hunger for him, how it fills me with bliss.

"_Cara_," he whispers, his voice tight, suddenly gathering me into his arms; the change in angle pulls me screaming over the edge, crying out his name again, and he moans brokenly in my ear as I feel him follow right after me, probably the fastest we've ever been.

Oh, gods, I'm his wife. Surprise: we're married, legal and binding this time.

I cling to him, burying my face in his shoulder as the aftershocks rock both of us, and run my fingers through his unbound hair. "Zev, my Zevran," I whisper, pressing kisses to the corner of his jaw as his hand travels down my back and over my hip.

He turns his head, catching my earring between his lips and flicking his tongue over it – an action that never fails to make me shiver – and laughs when I gasp, flexing around him. "Do you feel married now, Lily _mia_?"

I giggle. "Thoroughly." I wiggle my fingers, realizing that I'm beginning to lose a little bit of feeling in them. "This is really tight," I murmur, nuzzling closer into his neck.

"Mmh. So eager to be released?"

"Never. But can we take the cord off?" He laughs, and a moment later, my hand is freed. Immediately, I curl it around the other side of his neck, clinging more tightly to him. He wraps his arms around me and rises, carrying me into the bathroom. "Why...?"

"You are wearing silk, _cara_. If you were to walk about, what do you suppose might happen to it, hm? With silk, such things are impossible to hide," he says, amused.

"Mmh, dunno. Never wear silk," I murmur drowsily.

"Tch. Do not think it has escaped my notice," he responds, as my feet land on the porcelain. "This is something I intend to correct."

I shiver as the cold water from the tap washes over my bare toes, and he holds my dress for me as I grab the soap. "You ambushed me," I muse. "Was this Sofia's doing?"

"You give that girl too much credit, and not enough, at the same time. No, this was not solely her doing; it was your idea, I suppose... that and being beaten over the head with certain facts about women of your... era." He hisses under his breath. "Papers, papers, bloody _papers_, and _rules_, and _rituals_..." He snorts. "Tch. Me? I was born of a whore and raised by assassins; I don't really stand by these things. It never occurred to me that you would actually... require more." He kisses me, softening the words that follow next. "I always thought that my promises and vows would have been enough by themselves... but, if paper is what you need, paper is what you get."

That's almost a slap in the face, and I swallow, trying not to be stung by it. "I never would have asked for this," I say, quietly. "I did not expect it."

"I know." He pauses, then adds, "Just because you don't ask for things doesn't mean that you don't deserve them."

Well, now I'm confused. Which is it? Did I make him feel like he had to, or did he feel that I somehow deserved it? "But you make it sound like your hand was forced." I turn off the water.

I can feel him shaking his head as I lean over him to grab the towel off the bar on the wall. "No-no-no, not forced. Things were... explained to me. I thought that what I had done was enough." He gestures helplessly, taking in the entire property, maybe the entire world. "Weddings are big fancy things, for the nobility and the royalty. I was well satisfied with what we had."

I frown; the ceremony doesn't change how things are between people. "So was I."

"No, you were content, but you were not happy. You were not _at peace_, and I refuse to deny you the same exact peace that you give me, hm?" He takes the towel from me and hangs it up over the bar as I brace myself on his shoulder before stepping out of the tub.

I look up at him as he lets the skirt go, and there is a moment of quiet between us; the light from the bonfire flickers in through the curtained window, casting wavering shadows across his face. His eyes catch the light, thin lines of honey gold in the relative darkness of the room, and his tattoo stands out in sharp relief. There are so many rites of passage I never got to take part in. Small, stupid, frivolous things that I simply don't have in common with any of my peers. When my friends reminisce, I have no story of my own to share. I never went to the senior prom in high school, never graduated high school nor college, never celebrated my 18th nor 21st birthdays, never learned how to drive until I was well into my twenties.

Long ago, I realized that rituals and parties weren't things that happened to me, they were just things I attended. When he'd said that piercing my ear was more ritual than many get, I just... rolled with it, because he was right. I never breathed a word of it to anyone, as I knew that I'd get over it eventually, and I didn't want him to feel that I can't take him as he is, to accept us as we are. I thought, if we ever got around to it, we could probably find someone who would just sign the papers for a fee. I dismissed any feelings I might have had on the subject as irrelevant, because the thing was already done.

Yet, while planning Roxy's wedding, there were so many details: little things, like invitations and matching fabrics, flowers and cake. So much of it was left up to me, and I became lost in it. Maybe I looked wistful. I sigh. "You know me better than I do, sometimes."

He puts his hands on my hips, his fingers smoothing over the silk and rearranging the pleats almost absent-mindedly as he steps closer, his face serious. "It's because you don't like to look too deep inside yourself... afraid to see what might be looking back."

Normally, I don't play 'let's compare' when it comes to trauma, but we both know that while I've been through a lot more than most everyone I know, my experiences are a bucket in his ocean. He's right about this, too. My darkness is something I have worked hard at shoving into a box, compartmentalising it in one corner of my mind so that it can't crawl out and howl at me with its foetid breath. If I don't look at it, it can't see me. From anyone else, this kind of statement is made as a psycho-analytical accusation of weakness, and would provoke immediate defensiveness, at least, and outright hostility at worst.

The understanding I have here, with this man, I could never find anywhere else. I almost never have to explain anything. When I jump half out of my skin because he suddenly appears next to me, when I wake up screaming and throwing punches in the middle of the night, when I randomly dissociate during sex because of unpredictable triggers, there's nothing I have to say. He knows what is going on, knows what to do to bring me out of it, and doesn't judge me for it.

So, when he says this, it is by way of saying that he sees what is going on with me, and has adjusted his approach accordingly; just another way he has my back.

"Hmh, you know, with all those people out there, maybe we should go out and say hello... as this is your party, after all."

"_Ours_, my love," I correct, leaning against him and turning my face up for another kiss. "All that is mine is also yours." For a man who has had little, I want to make that clear to him, and I remind him as often as I have to. Sometimes I forget that he has no experience of certain things that I consider very basic, so I make sure to remind him as often as I must. I always look for opportunities to do at least a little bit for him, just as he does so much for me.

I watch his expression flicker a little, as he takes time to formulate his response. "I am happy merely counting _you_ as mine. These other things are such as can be replaced, _amora_, and that is what matters to me... but it is good to have so many friends, and it... feels odd. Sometimes."

"Hmm..." I smile. "A wise man once said, 'just because you don't ask for things doesn't mean you don't deserve them.'," I quote back to him, my voice soft. "You give me everything, Zevran, and I take it – anything from your hands – but I can only accept it if you can accept all that I hold, from my hands as well. If we are married, then we are equals." I twine my fingers through his, looking up at him, and leaning against him. "So let's go out our back door, meet our friends, and enjoy our party, hm?"

We leave the tangled web of our handfasting cord on the kitchen counter and head out the back door. Judging by the banners and the configurations of the tents, the entire Viking Horde has turned out, all the pirates of both the Peckish Dragon and the Bloody Wastrel, along with just about everyone we know from the faire circuit... the camp is on the beach behind my shop, with enough room for all of them, and all the fire-dancers, belly dancers, and musicians, as well. I have an entire event at my own back door. The sand is still warm, and the smell of the sweetgrass mingles with the salt, the smoke, the incense and the spicy scent of the Gypsy encampment.

I hover in the darkness at the edge of the party, watching Sofia and Roxy sway in time to the music, their hips tracing complicated circles and their arms forming graceful curves, fingers splayed and undulating stomachs bared to the night and the firelight. As ever, the drums draw me, oh, pull so hard, and I wrap my arms around my waist. I want to dance. I miss the feeling, the perfect harmony that I used to be able to reach, the balance and the flow. They are so beautiful it makes my heart ache. As I gaze around at the faces of my friends, gathered by the fire, I realize that there have been a lot more hands in my life than I thought, and I feel a great swell of gratitude for both their patience and the gods' humour that let me bumble through these things successfully, no matter how blindly I seem to have done it. Human interaction – heh. I guess I do not fail as badly as I think.

I feel Zev next to me, just behind me, his heat against my side, and realize with a start that he's been teaching me stuff when I _wasn't_ paying attention, too. There is a muffled gasp and a squeak as I come around the side of the dune, surprising Captain Lydia making out with one of the Vikings. She grins. "Lily, heyyy..." Ah. Drunk.

"Hey, Zev," the man says, and points toward the fire, "Elric's got the deer cooked."

"Ah, excellent news; we are starving."

"What's on tap?" I ask.

Lydia giggles. "Elric's crew brought seven cases of their Persephone Mead, and the Peckish Dragon  
brought Devil Juice."

My mouth waters. "Devil Juice?" I whisper. It's epic, fabled. Spiced rum, a secret recipe that puts Captain Morgan's to shame, and can only be got from the crew of one, fictitious pirate ship.

She nods blithely, having no idea of my weakness. "Yep! Mm-hm! And from what I hear, there's a case of mead and a gallon of rum for you to keep!"

"Also, I've been informed that you love artichokes," he says, looking up at me.

My stomach growls audibly, the light dinner suddenly worthless after everything that just happened. I look at Zev and he smiles wickedly. "Ah, I heard that, _cara_." Wait, he knew I was hungry before I did. I smile and shake my head.

I eat an entire artichoke – always much to Zev's delight, for some strange reason, but that's okay; if it means I get to eat artichokes pretty much whenever I want I'm not going to examine it too closely. These happen to be stuffed with mushrooms, basil, and asiago, my favourites – oh, everything I love like crazy, all in one mouthful. Sofia shows up in the middle of my feasting, leaning over my shoulder with a bottle of mead in her hand. Her smile is lush, and I can't help but return it. "Oh happy day, little girl," she says, and plants a kiss on my cheek. She leaves the bottle in the crook of my arm as she leans over and kisses Zev's cheek too. "You're good for her," she says. "Best miracle ever."

"She is far better for me." He returns the kiss with brotherly affection, coupled with a partial hug and I blush, but I can't hide in my hair this time because of the way it's pulled back. I turn my face aside anyway, a habitual gesture, and Zev laughs. "Ah-hah, _cara_, you cannot hide your pretty blush this time, hm?" He strokes the back of his finger down my cheek and I smile, turning pinker, and looking at him out of the corner of my eye. I see affection, love, pride, oh – the way he looks at me takes my breath away, not just with its intensity, but with the weight of the way he sees me. He makes me want to be a better woman.

I curl up next to him, tucking my feet under me, and lean my head against his shoulder as we share the bottle of mead Sofia left us with. It's uncommonly strong and tastes rather wickedly of pomegranate and cinnamon; things go hazy around the edges, and I've had just enough liquor to allow Sofia to talk me into one dance. Just one.

"_Cara_," Zev says, surprised. "You've been holding out on me. I did not know you can dance."

I laugh. "I can. Sofia and I used to dance together, but that was ages ago... hurts too much afterwards, mostly, but... Well... I've been a lot more... _active_, lately. I think I've got one in me." Zev arches a questioning eyebrow at me, and I smile. "I promise I'll stop if I think I'm going to hurt myself," I say, finishing a quick stretch. I take a place on the big mat next to the fire as a drummer from the Peckish Dragon sits down and begins to tap out a rhythm. I close my eyes and raise my arms, letting my hips sway in time as someone picks up a counterpoint on a deeper-toned drum.

Once the drummers have settled into their beat, someone with a flute brings in a melody, and I have enough to work with that I begin the serpentine twisting and undulating hip drops that characterize the dance, slowly spinning as I travel back and forth across the mat. It has been a long time since I danced, but I find that, as always, I have to do it with my eyes closed, or I will become too terrified to continue. So many eyes on me never fail to cause me so much embarrassment that I must leave the stage, and that is fully half the reason I stopped. I _never_ got over that stage fright, _always_ had to dance with eyes closed; this does not go over so well when one is hired as a performer, sometimes.

"_Guardami, cara_." There is a whisper from the edge of the mat as I travel across it again, and I turn to face him, my eyes opening, and suddenly everything I do, every move I make, is for him. There is no one else here, not right now, and I realize that how he has been with me over these past couple of months has given me a more graceful roll to my hips. For the first time, I dance for someone with my eyes _open_, and it's for him. Only for him; anything, everything, but only for him. I wonder if he even knows what he does to me, how he makes me bare my soul, or that he has seen me in ways that I've never shown anyone else. So much I kept locked away, that now he is the only person who knows. But... heh... technically, _I_ taught him to pick locks.

He has shed the doublet he was wearing, his silk shirt half-unlaced, and I should not be surprised that he is stalking toward me like a cat, following me, circling me, weaving himself into the way that I move and joining me, seamlessly, as though we'd practised this a hundred times. Then again, considering the kind of movements this dance uses... we kind of _have_. The other dancers zaghareet, their voices rising in ululation, quickly joined by many others.

I've seen him fight, watched him do his morning training thing, seen him running full-tilt down the beach, witnessed him monkey up the side of a cliff just to grab a bucket full of raspberries_(__2)_, and felt how he moves in my arms, but I've never seen him _dance_, and never, during any of those activities, has he moved like _this_. The silk clings to his stomach as he rolls his hips forward, the leather of his pants tight to his thigh as he circles me again, and the firelight shines through his sleeves, outlining the shape of his arms.

_Oh, glorious Hecate, Dionysus and Hermes, oh, Eros, I am so grateful for your blessings, oh gods, shower us with humour and oh, Atropos, forget our threads. Father Poseidon, I am thy humble daughter and thy grateful servant. Forever will I sing thy praises for sending him to me, the gift that has given me life._ Fervent prayers sealed behind my lips, I keep my eyes on him as we echo, mirror, and complement each other.

I am practically startled when the music comes to an end and we stop, facing each other. He rests his hands on my waist and his forehead against mine as the zaghareet rises around us again. I am suddenly bashful once more, and must flee the firelight. I reach the comparative safety of the food tables and grab a piece of cheesecake at random, dragging it away with me to the top of a dune nearby. I sit down with my prize, pleased to discover that it is tiramisu flavoured, and promptly lean on Zev's shoulder when he sits down next to me. He puts his arm around me and I shiver as a breeze cuts through the silk sleeves, drying the sweat to goosebumps on my fire-warmed flesh. His arm is a band of warmth, and I cuddle in closer, drawing on his heat.

We sit together there for a while and listen as the bards take turns singing or telling stories, and I rest my head on his shoulder, drowsy with satisfied happiness. Gazing up into the night sky, I see my constellations: Orion and Cassiopeia. I feel Zev look up, his head tilting back, and so I tell him about them.

"When I was homeless, I travelled all over the place, but everywhere I went, there were these two constellations that were always the same: Orion and Cassiopeia." I point, outlining the shapes. "There, Cassiopeia, the 'w'. She was an ancient queen, beautiful and vain, who proclaimed herself more beautiful than the daughters of Poseidon, thus inviting his wrath. She ended up almost losing her daughter to a sea monster, and eventually got turned to stone for being of fickle loyalty. Basically. That's the horribly abridged and mangled version. They say that somehow it's her sitting in a chair, but I like to think of it as her tits." This makes him laugh, and I smile.

"And Orion, there: arms, legs, his belt, his sword. He was an extremely skilled hunter who was killed by his lover, the huntress Artemis. She was tricked by her brother Apollo; he was protective of her virginity. Well. That's one version. I've heard several. Anyway, these stars are so bright, they can be seen even in the middle of the city. There are only three constellations with that distinction, as far as I can tell. The third one is 'the big dipper', Ursa Major, over there. That's Ursa Minor... and there is the North Star, Polaris. It never moves, so it's safe to navigate by it. And... that's all I know about astronomy.

"But when I was in the city, and everything was unfamiliar and frightening, those two constellations, right there, I could stand and point to them, and feel some sense of belonging, some sense of orientation, between the planet and the sky. Something to keep me anchored."

I can feel his eyes on me, and sense that he's only glanced in the directions I pointed. His features are soft, both from drink and the flickering firelight. A gentle hand reaches up, smoothing one of my wayward locks of hair away. "Ah. It is good you had such things to hold onto. I find that... for me, you do this as well."

I look at him, meeting his eyes, and am taken aback by the sudden crushing weight of the fact that I am literally all he's got. I've felt it, I've known it, but I didn't look at it very hard, because of how heavy that fact is. I can't fail him, not ever.

I put my hand to his cheek, my thumb stroking over his cheekbone. He's acclimatized really well, we're moving forward, but he's not from here. He plays it so cool, it's hard to remember sometimes that he's far, far from home, but I hear him.

...I'll need to take some lessons from Isis.

_(1)_ "_Lily, my Lily, my queen, my girl; yes, my love, you are irresistible. I like to feel you writhing in pleasure, to hear you crying out my name, only for me. Only for me Lily, sweetness, my wife, my woman... You're mine, only mine; you belong to me and nobody else."_

_(2)_ Outtake:  
_He puts his hands on his hips with an irritated grunt, though he grins at me. "It is a simple enough question, _cara_. Do you want the raspberries or not?"_

_Oh, I do, but I don't want to make him climb a cliff for them. "Uh..."_

_He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you _like _raspberries?"_

"_Yes." This, I can answer._

"_Good. As do I." And with that, he is halfway up the cliff with the handle of the bucket in his teeth, before I can even take a second breath. Is it underestimating him, if I don't even know it's possible? _

_Picnics are better with fresh raspberries._


	16. World in My Eyes

This is the fifth time in as many days that I've caught my husband – and that word just gives me a little thrill each time I think it – eyeing me sidelong like _that_. It is a look that says 'I have _plans_'. He's figuring something out, an approach possibly, and Zev's been chewing over whatever it is for _days,_ ever since the other night when he'd sought out places on my body that I never _willingly_ let anyone touch. Of course, he had been gentle, but as soon as an inquisitive finger moved farther back along my sex – and toward forbidden territory – I froze up, and _now_ it seems he has that _thought_ in his head. He's going to push me, I _know_ it. I trust him, I keep saying that, and... I do. I just... I can't let _anyone_ touch me that way. Not after what... happened. Not even him.

To make matters worse, he is always just... _lounging_. I mean, it doesn't sound that bad, I know – it's so simple, how could that be a problem? The thing is, he is mouth-wateringly attractive when he sprawls like that, and he's been purposely taunting me, leaving the top button of his jeans undone and wearing shirts too tight, unbuttoned, or not at all, and I know for a fact that he goes 'commando' most of the time. No, all that is juuuust peachy. What is entirely horrible about it is that he won't let me _touch_ him! I've been going crazy. Oh, yes, he _sees to me_ – twice a day – but as much as I love his mouth and hands on me, I want him above me, against me, _inside_ me, and no matter that I've been trying to play the game of enticement, he's so much better at resisting than I am that it's almost not worth it to try.

Last night, I tried to tell him 'no' when he went to give me release, just as I had that morning, and the night before, but every time, I cave – just cave – utterly. All it takes is him kissing me, touching me gently and firmly, all at once. I can curl up, I can resist... right up until he puts his hands on me... unless he breathes on my neck... until I hear the way his tongue rolls when he says '_Cara,'_ in my ear... _Today I'll be strong_, I tell myself. Oh gods, please... I don't like this game; I feel like I'm being _serviced_. It's so one-sided it makes me _sick_, but he's so serious about it. I don't understand what he hopes to accomplish. I'm at a loss, I'm going mad... and I feel... _rejected_.

Right now, I have to leave. _Right__ now._ I can't breathe, not with him reclining in 'his' chair, one leg thrown over the arm, a book in hand, looking like _that_. My only escape is the shop, so I flee. I crank up my music in the hopes that when I end up crying, I won't give myself away, but with those ears of his, who knows if he can still hear me. He probably will, actually, knowing my luck.

Covering my mouth, back pressed to the door, I slide down it. My eyes are itchy and burn, and _oh__ gods_, here it comes, welling up in me just like I'm going to throw up, but it's all emotional, not physical. The first sob, I fight, choking it back, and the second as well, but by the third my face is in my hands, my forehead pressed to my raised knees and I'm crying. I _hate_ crying. I've never cried so much in my life as I have this last year.

I don't know how long it takes for it to finally stop, but I hurt. I sob until I'm empty, half-expecting Zev, my heart, my love, my soul, to have come in by now, ready as ever to rescue me, but he didn't, and for that I'm actually kind of glad. I have enough time to wash my face and stop being all puffy before I go back in the house. It gives me fuel, and suddenly, my hands are in motion. I don't think I've ever done so much, worked out so much irrational pain and fury in one sitting. Hours later, I've finally exhausted myself into a state of grey numbness, and my shoulders are just too tired to continue, so I plod back to the house

Glancing around, I realize that Zev is still reading. He hasn't moved an inch, and right now I'm too emotionally drained to be agitated. All I want is to wash off the dust and sweat. I stand under the spray, eyes closed, for so long that the water goes cold, until I reluctantly turn it off and climb out. Food is probably what I need next.

It is when I come out that I realize Zev's been keeping tabs on me, anyway. I sigh, resigned. Of course. There's a clean set of yoga pants and a t-shirt on the bed, ready to go, and I can smell food from the kitchen. Oh, cooking – this, at least, is something I don't have to avoid, and I desperately need something to be normal, so I can get some balance. This silence is breaking me.

However, when I go back out into the main room, he's still just sitting there, reading. There's a plate with some baked chicken and couscous, along with a bowl of veggies and such, standing innocently on the kitchen counter, waiting for me, all by itself. _Just__ one plate?_ I come to a halt, staring at it in surprise. We _always_ make and eat dinner _together_, ever since... well, even in my writing, frankly, but I can see that he has a bowl of fruit where he's at, reading even still. He doesn't even look up.

My hunger completely evaporates; I don't _want_ to eat anymore, but I have a sneaking suspicion he would summarily shovel food into my mouth if I didn't at least make an attempt, and right now, I just... I can't even look at him. Which, I know, is completely irrational, because I'm hurt and upset that he doesn't seem to want me to be with him, and hasn't, for days. I eat standing up in the kitchen, something that used to be typical, but which I haven't done since he got here. I force myself to choke down the veggies he made, and some of the couscous. It's a struggle to eat more than a bite or two of the chicken; right now I'm so numb, I can't even taste all the spices he uses.

Putting away the remainder of my meal – which, I have to admit, has been the most painful dinner I've ever eaten, even when compared to that time my jaw was wired shut and I had to suck everything through a straw – I debate going back to the shop, but that seems pretty useless right now, considering that I've already showered, and am not dressed to deal with splinters and sanding and all that... Which just leaves the sewing room. I'm not really feeling it, but it'll keep my hands busy, and if I'm busy enough, I won't think too much. I suppose I could work on the contents of my garb trunk. Some of the stuff in there should be easy to alter, and I've been meaning to do it for months, anyway. I don't spare a thought for Tommy, and the fact that so much of the garb I'm sorting through was originally for him. It doesn't even matter anymore.

I'm halfway through my fifth tunic – really, I just had to let out some seams in the shoulders, and shave off some excess at the sides and waist – when I realize that Zevran's leaning casually against the door frame, arms crossed. I pause, not really looking up at him, but he takes it as me asking him what he could possibly want right now.

"I am going to bed _cara_, if you'd like to join me." His voice is soft, and I have to take a slow breath just to steady myself again. He hasn't spoken to me in hours, at this point.

Swallowing, I raise my eyes and glance at his just long enough to have technically made eye contact, my gaze immediately sliding away again and dropping back to my hands. "Right."

"_Cara_, perhaps you should come to bed." It feels like an order, even though I can tell he doesn't mean it that way.

My hands tense on the fabric of the tunic in my hands. "I'm... not tired." I don't want to be tortured right now. I can't take the idea of sleeping beside him and not being allowed to touch him. He would let me hold him, sure, but it's been days since I've _touched_ him in any manner other than minimal affection, because he simply _won't let me_. He's all hands, all over me, but as soon as I try to reach for him, he is pushing _my_ hands away, or trapping them so that I can't. I can't take it anymore. I'd rather sleep on the couch tonight, or even here, face-first on the desk.

Zev comes towards my sewing table, and squats down next to me, resting a hand on the wood, the other coming to touch my cheek. "Please?"

Scrunching my eyes shut, I can't help but lean into the touch. I cannot tell him no, when he asks me for things in such a way; ever since that day in the kitchen, I just can't stand to see him kneel or beg. It's degrading; he's better than that, and I thought that we were better than _this_.

Resigned, I nod, knowing that tonight is to be more torture: laying beside him, being touched by him, but unable to give him the same satisfaction he foists onto me. It's like he's forcing me to treat him like a whore, and this cuts me so, so deeply. Before I can stand on my own, his arms are sliding under my knees and behind my shoulders. Startled, I look up at his face, which is serene as he lifts me up.

All I want right now is to kiss him, to touch him, to hang onto him as we both shudder. He isn't looking at me, though, but straight ahead, and he pauses at light switches for me to turn them off, as his hands are pretty much full at the moment. We've done this before, him carrying me through the house, and me opening doors and turning lights off, but it's usually when I'm sick, or when my back acts up and I can't stand up straight. Under normal circumstances this would make me feel safe, wanted, but right now I just feel trapped. The worst part is, if I tell him to stop, then there won't be anything at all. As hard as it has been to weather these one-sided attentions, that would break me. I would shatter into dust like exploding glass. Boom. No more Lily Arainai.

He settles me on the bed, but doesn't leave me. Gentle, callused hands bury themselves in my hair. There's no way I can hide the whimper that breaks free, but whether it's pain or need I couldn't really say... actually: both.

"Ah... _cara__ mia,_ so beautiful you are," he murmurs, massaging my scalp, his fingers careful not to stray too near my 'spot', and in some ways that's almost as bad as if he _had been_ touching me there. Ohh, but I just had to tell him 'all's fair' and then go and blab my big mouth about Sun Tzu, whom he's now practically obsessed with. In fact, if that old, mummified, and long-dead Asian wise-ass were here, I'd half expect Zev to try and have his babies.

Fuckin' toast. That's me.

I miss his skin, and the weight of him above me, wrapping myself around him, the way his face changes when I slide my hands down his chest. I can't even look at him; my eyes are clenched, and I begin trembling. I wrap my arms around my waist to keep from reaching for him; I can't take it if he pushes me away again. I want him, need him so badly my bones hurt. I feel like I'm dying of starvation, and it aches, oh, how it aches. If I thought begging would do me any good, I would have been on my knees days ago, but he is made of steel, and it will last as long as he decides it will. For the first time ever, I don't want him to touch me, because I know what it's going to lead to; just one more time, and it'll break my heart. If he does it to me again, I'm sleeping in the shop.

And yet, despite my resolve, when his lips meet mine, I melt. I can't help it; I have no defences against him, not this way. The soft velvet of his tongue and the taste of cantaloupe fill my mouth. He knows how much I love melon, he knows I can't eat it, he knows what his mouth does to me, his hands, his voice. My fingers twist in the thin material of my shirt, and my eyes set to burning again. I don't want to do this, I don't want to cry in front of him, but there's no hiding. His mouth breaks away from mine, and I'm left gasping, but then there's more heat, wet heat, over my cheeks: his tongue licking away the tears. "No tears, _cara_, no tears," he murmurs; his thumbs stroke my cheeks, even as his fingers remain busy, keeping up the firm rubbing over my head. "Ah, _dolcezza, regina mia, mia moglie, amora,_ please. No tears; I am here, I will go nowhere."

That is part of the problem. He is right here, and I know he won't go, but he isn't really _here_, either, not to my hands, not for my starving heart. Sniffling as I break, I lean in and press my face to his neck, hands still tucked tightly into my armpits. His hands slip from my hair, down my shoulders and back; squatting as he is, on the floor, the position is awkward and uncomfortable, but I don't care, just as long as he lets me near him again. "Shhh, Lily _mia..._" He presses a soft kiss to my temple and I roll my shoulder forward, curling against him, thinking maybe if I just don't try to put my hands on him, he'll let me closer.

"I need you," I mumble brokenly into his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. Oh, gods, the smell of his neck.

"I need you, also." Oh, gods, then why? _Why__?_

I am choking; I can't believe I even have to ask this, and I can barely force the words out, around the tightness in my throat. "Then why won't you let me touch you?"

A broad palm runs up under the back of my shirt and over my ribs, moving my bra aside to cup one of my breasts. "You may touch me. You're touching me now, are you not?"

Oh, oh that's cruel; he's playing games with me. I pull back abruptly, grabbing his wrist. If he's got a point, that's one thing, but I won't take this disingenuous innocence, and it makes me set my jaw. "_No__._ I'm serious Zev. You know what I mean." I let go of him, wrapping my arms around my waist again, this time to keep from crawling into his lap. This is as close to a fight as we ever get, and it's ripping me apart inside. I'm trembling on the edge of madness, here, ready to _run_ from him and spend my night sleeping under a table in the shop; surely he knows this.

He tips his head back, eyes closing and licks his lips, his brow furrowed. "I have very real, pressing reasons why. Do you believe I am playing a game, to be intentionally cruel?"

You know, I did wonder for a moment, but I know better. I shake my head, still not understanding, still so lost. "What did I do?" I must have done _something_ to make him treat me like this. "If you could even just tell me how long I have to endure–" My voice finally breaks on the last word, and I bite my lip, hard; I dig my fingers into my ribs, closing my eyes tightly and bowing my head, my hair hiding me as I try to keep myself from breaking into full-on sobs again.

His face is unreadable when I can finally look at him again. "Give yourself into my care tonight." The sudden intensity in his eyes is staggering, and I start back. "You will have your answer by the end, if you cannot deduce it before."

He's going to _torture_ me again. _More._ I shudder, knowing I can say no, but I don't _dare_. If I do that, this – whatever it is – will only lie between us, unsaid, continuing the misery forever. Fear and desire wash over me at the same time, so strong it makes my hands shake. Any price, any price at all – as long as it means the suffering can be over, I'll pay it. It can't be like this; I need 'us' back. I can't take this anymore. Inside I am screaming with warring 'yes' and 'no', but outside, I manage to nod; though I can't really raise my voice above a whisper, and I have to hide just to say it, I assent. "Okay."

Finally, he stands, this time pulling me up with him. I'm shaking, but he's so steady. I turn my face to the side, my hair falling over my cheek as he unwinds my arms from my stomach and pulls my shirt up, tugging it off over my head and tossing it away. I rub my cheek against his collarbone as he steps into me, putting his arms around me to unhook my bra; it, and my pants, join my shirt on the floor, but not my panties. With a soft press of his hands at my shoulders, he wordlessly asks me to sit and then lay back, my legs hanging off the side of the bed. Steeling my resolve, my jaw tightens, and I force myself to remain still, my arms around my stomach again, even as he pulls my undies from me with his teeth, even as I sense, more than feel, that his hands are busy with something.

I don't flinch when I feel him lean over me, a blindfold coming to cover my eyes. His lips press mine softly as he ties it securely, and I forget myself, my resolve, my hand drifting up to cross his cheek. The blindfold game, I know; this is familiar territory we've covered before. Sometimes I am startled when I notice how much he's trained me; I never even realize it until afterwards. One time the power went out, and for the first time in my life, I didn't run into _anything_ as I went from one end of the house to the other in the pitch dark. Like I told Sofia: we run around with blindfolds on for fun... although, him more than me. I once saw him wrap one on and tape its edges flat before he went for a jog, and I've seen him do it to practice his martial arts, too. Sometimes I tease him about being a 'kung-fu master'.

These thoughts flash across my mind as I try to distract myself from my nerves over what is coming. I hear him moving around the room, and the sound of cords being shifted and changed, near where our mp3 player is, on the dresser in the corner. As the first bars play, I know exactly what it is: "World in My Eyes". Depeche Mode. Of all things... Yet, of course, he knows my tastes, my affinity for music, my love of poetry... the effect this particular song has on me... not to mention how I feel about Dave Gahan's voice, or Martin Gore's lyrics.

I take deep breaths, trying not to fidget, clinging to sensation: the softness of the silk that blocks light from my eyes, the slightly rough texture of the brocade comforter beneath my hands, and the plush carpet under my feet. His hands, sliding across my skin, steal my breath, and I focus on that delicious heat as he shifts me how he wants me, easily moving me up the bed, leaving smouldering handprints all over me and pushing a few pillows under my head.

The bed shifts as he crawls over me, straddling my waist, and I feel the scrape of his jeans against my bare skin, but when he leans over me, he is close enough for my face to brush against his stomach, and I press my lips to his bared skin, glad that he has ditched his shirt. This brief contact is more than I've been able to accomplish all week, and I revel in it, nuzzling upward against him. He relents just the tiniest bit in allowing it, and I fight not to start crying again. He raises one of my arms, looping something silky about my wrist, and I inhale his scent, pressing my cheek against his stomach and trying not to disconnect, to stay here with him and not let my mind go careening off into dark places. I take a deep breath, focusing on the music, on his touch and the sound of his humming, struggling to stay grounded.

I bite my tongue and pray to Isis to lend me the strength to weather this with grace. My pulse went through the roof minutes, _hours_ ago, but I have to remain steady, to focus and pay attention, because if I don't connect the dots fast enough, I'll lose my ability to do so at all, and then the suffering will not end. I'll do anything to stop him being mad at me. I must have done something. What did I do to merit another punishment?

I don't really notice when my other arm is tied, so focused am I on trying to sort through what I've done in the last week or so, and coming up completely empty-handed. Nothing at all springs to mind. I consider the idea that perhaps I've done another 'ears' thing to him, but he's not nearly frantic enough for that sort of thing to have been the cause. Did I forget to tell him something again? Oh, that's a dangerous one; how can I know what I've done if I've forgotten it? Curse my sieve-like brain. But there are no overtones of irritation this time, not like there would be if he were thinking I'm keeping something from him. He's very calm, very steady – even moreso than usual – measured and implacable, utterly unwavering in his course of action. So, it's something that I don't understand, something he's been trying to beat into my head, and I'm not getting it. What conversations have we had in the last two weeks?

Then I notice he's singing. "_That's all there is/Nothing more than you can feel now/That's all there is/Let me show you the world in my eyes..._" I've heard him sing before. Almost always, it's been campy, and hilarious – karaoke nights with Jack and Sofia never fail to be interesting – but this is... beautiful. I knew he could sing, but I didn't know he was capable of _this_. As his hands, move over my hips and stomach, he says, "_Now let my body do the moving/And let my hands do the soothing... Let me show you the world in my eyes._"

That's a clear instruction; in fact, it's practically a plea. It always hits me like a ton of bricks when he gets that way with me. I can't speak, but all the fight goes out of me; I go limp and give over control, completely. I'm not even going to try and pretend to resist. Even though he's stopped singing the words, he's still humming. Zev's mouth touches my neck, his strong fingers digging in and massaging the sore muscles at my shoulders as he breathes over my throat. There's a feather light brush over my windpipe – too fast and too light for me to be afraid. He's _showing_ me. He's _begging_ me to _listen_ to him.

I've tried so hard! I thought I _was_... Apparently I wasn't. He's so patient, my Zevran, and he spends the song stroking and touching me from head to toe, even parts that should tickle, but don't, not with what he's about. I'm all nerves, and I let him move me around like a doll. Every kiss, lick and caress over me is bright and scintillating. The song loops over, and I'm surprised, though I really shouldn't be. It means he's been planning this, probably for days, and most likely has even mapped out every single action and motion.

Toast! Why am I always toast?

Oh gods... wait... I'm _not_ toast.

I can't be, even though I _feel_ like toast.

Something about the way he moves, the things he is doing, clicks it into place in my head: he's _worshipping_ me. That's what he's doing; oh _no_, that's _exactly_ what he's doing, and it's frightening. I never asked for this, never wanted this... But I think he needs this, even as I can hear a little Zev-like voice in my head telling me that _I_ need this, too. I can't agree; I don't have to be tied down for the things I need. The bed dips as he moves up and down over me, and I cringe inside; I don't deserve this. I don't, but he thinks I do, and there's no way for me to live up to that.

I have to try to find a way to be worthy of this pedestal he's putting me on, so even as the silk of the blindfold becomes damp with my leaking tears, I focus on his breath, the vibration of his throat when he rubs his face over my thigh. There is heat and warmth and gentleness in the wet slither of tongue over that spot behind my knee. His hands at my hips slowly roll me over, mounding pillows under my stomach and chest. I shiver and whimper as his weight settles over my back, and I feel his breath wash over my ear as he nuzzles against me. I can feel the hard length of him pressed against my hip, through his jeans, as he whispers in my ear.

"_Let me show you the world in my eyes..._"

Shuddering, I nod, the words sticking in my throat. I can't even make much noise, not more than a whimper or a stuttering gasp, as my hands flex against the ropes. His tongue travels along the broken line of my spine, licking from the base of my skull to my waist, where it veers off to the side above one of the cheeks of my ass. I bite my tongue, half expecting him to just pry me open and do as he wills, but I know better than that, even as my instincts scream in remembered pain. I fight with myself, struggling to stay still. _Focus__, __focus__on__roughened__hands__, __the__scent__of__this__man__, __focus__: __you__can__feel__the__length__of__his__hair__; __he__'__s__not__Tommy__, __this__isn__'__t__punishment__, __just__hold__still__, __nothing__bad__will__happen__._ I whimper. _No__, __no__don__'__t__think__of__it__, __oh__, __I__'__m__not__going__to__scream__, __no__._

He does none of those things, my Zevran, my husband; of course he doesn't. Instead he goes down further, licking the back of my thigh, then switches to the other. I can tell he's hunched at the end of the bed, one hand picking up and massaging one of my feet. Firm pressure rolls over my instep, and then there's his mouth there too. _He__'s kissing my foot!_ The symbolism makes me sob. I don't deserve that, I don't, and it's _my foot_. _No touching my feet!_ Oh, gods, this rule has been inviolable for decades. My toes curl as Zev treats my other sole to the same thing. I want to struggle, to shriek and thrash and _stop him_ from touching it. _No, not my feet! Oh gods, why..._

But I said I'd give myself over to his hands, so I struggle to give up, for now, fighting anything he does. He's touching me – that's what I want – and there's the promise that he'll let me have him too, which is enough to spur me to hold still, even when I feel a flash of tongue dart between my big toe and the longer second one. Of course they scrunch reflexively, but I think he was only making a point. It's almost a relief when he leaves off that to nudge my thighs apart. There's no pushing, no shoving, just a soft nudge. So far, everything is soft – not a single flash of teeth, not a single grab – it's all smooth.

Sucking my lip between my teeth, I brace myself, and tell myself that I'm ready, that he can do anything he wants, that he would never hurt me, and if it freaks me out too much, I can just distract myself until something changes. Of course, no, he doesn't let me retreat at all; he keeps me here, angling his head so he can blow over the damp curls of my sex. No one's ever done that from behind before. It feels... different. Not like a 69 – I've done that – but this is strange, because there is a definite change in the mechanics, as probing tongue slips between my lips, lapping at me slowly. He bathes me with the wet muscle, licking away the moisture that always builds as soon as he even looks at me. Not that this helps; as every tickling, arousing swipe of his tongue goes deeper, it only makes me wetter.

Broad palms massage my rear, not spreading, but I find myself becoming used to that touch. It doesn't hurt, it's not demanding, and the music breaks through my mind. _"__Let my hands do the soothing..."_ How many times does he have this on repeat? Probably enough for it to fuel every touch, each measured caress. He _has_ mapped it all out, in every detail. There is no escape from it. I'm... not entirely sure I want to, anyway. "_I should have warned you, this was inevitable,"_ I remember him saying, that first time, and groan inwardly. I've never been able to deny him anything, not from the very start, and he's always known it.

A moan breaks free when he begins suckling on my pearl, his forehead pressed to the back of my thigh. I can feel his nose at my opening, and _no__!_, that _tickles!,_ when I feel him inhaling deeply. At that I can't help but buck, but I try so, so hard not to thrash. Normally, he would laugh at such a victory, but I can tell he's so focused that his usual reactions are nowhere near what will come out now. The first time I feel his mouth travel away from my femininity, and go higher, I flinch, jerking in surprise – even though I _knew_ he would do that at some point – and whimper. _Don't panic, don't panic...!_ But, again, like all the other buttons he's been not-quite-but-sort-of-pushing, he backs away almost as soon as he touches it. I know he'll return there, he has _plans_, and from everything I know of him, and everything he's done so far, I am heartily aware that he will break down the walls, or, at the very least, find a way to slide through the cracks that he's made.

He pulls back, and a moment later I moan as a finger delves into me, into that place I'm _used_ to him being. His other hand strokes my back like he would a cat, and I naturally arch into it, ever a slave to his hands. Oh, but I wouldn't have it be any other way. Deep inside, his middle finger goes as far as it can, and then begins flexing slowly. The pad strikes the spot near the mouth of my womb, and heat curls deep behind my pelvic bone. Zevran kisses me at the base of my spine, just above the crack of my behind, but I am distracted; I'm not exactly mindless, but I am lost to him, nonetheless.

The song, oh gods it's changed. "Enjoy the Silence". Gods, oh gods, he's speaking to me. "_All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms_," is sung into my flesh, before I cannot help but orgasm, that shatteringly perfect deep massage coupled with his voice, his hand on my back, and his face nuzzling at the crack of my bottom, barely spreading it. My arms jerk half-heartedly when his lips meet that hidden hole; it's purely reflex. His finger leaves me, and he cups me, squeezing lightly, the heel of his palm pressing where I ache to have him.

A squeak escapes my lips when the wet slither of his tongue circles the outside of that forbidden hole, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to hold my body still, even as I turn my head to bury my face in a pillow, waiting for the invasion, but what comes next is fingers parting my lips once more, stroking and framing my clit, while his thumb slips into my channel, hooking down. This time it's my g-spot he presses, rather than that vastly unknown place deep within, along with my pearl, and the tickling of his tongue takes back seat in my mind, somehow, because of this. I lock onto the familiar touch along with the lyrics, finding the will to not cry out and pull away from him. It's all I can do, but he's so _steady_, and so _gentle_... Fighting would be horrible and reflex, and unfair to him, with all this intense devotion. I hang onto trying to be worthy of it, trying to give him what he needs of me.

It sort of dawns on me – not like I didn't know this, but I failed to contextualize it – it... doesn't hurt. It's just the memories that cackle and chitter in the background, railing at me about violence. Zevran isn't silencing them, he is merely trying to provide something... I don't know what, exactly. He deserves my trust; he has long since earned it, hell, even before he got here, really. I thought I'd long since given it, and I clutch it tightly to my breast, this fact. Trust, trust, trust.

Gods, is that what this is about? Still?

It's... almost powerful enough to make that darkness recede. Not quite, but almost. It gives me the will to not cry out when his tongue probes slowly, and I struggle to let my tight muscles relax at the mild intrusion.

It is the differences that help. The fact that it's him, that he is using the music to speak directly to me, that there's nothing to fear here, at all. It is enough to make the strangeness... not uncomfortable ...bearable. Breathing deep and slow, I am no longer limp but I am near... relaxed. In fact, I'm not even forcing it, much, and this is a revelation.

I can accept this touch... so far... and he's so slow, which I normally have a hard time putting up with, but right now, it's working. I am whimpering when the song loops back again; I hear, "_Pleasures remain/So does their pain,_" and I sob, a fresh flood of tears soaking the blindfold. _This_ is what this is all about: him providing a counterpoint to horror – this difference, this touch, these words, this _man_ and this _me_. He's writing over it again in the only way he knows how.

Zev pauses, his face pulling away, and I can't help but buck, used to it, not realizing that I was liking it when he was doing that, until he stopped. "Lily?" and it's _that_: that hint of worry, that courtesy; _that_ is what's the most different.

"Please..." I sob into the mattress.

A hand goes to the back of my head, and he's stopped everything, pausing, as he scoots so his face is near mine. "_Cara_, do you need me to stop?"

I can hear his fear. He's scared that I _will_ tell him to stop. It would be a blow – to both of us, I realize – if I told him I couldn't trust him to give me a voice, a memory to lean against in the dark places. I am tired of my body being a battlefield. If I say no to this, right now, it will put me in agreement with Tommy, that I don't deserve better than what he'd put me through. Worst of all, it will make me not who I say I am, and that will be failing Zev, and us, completely. I can't do that.

Somehow I gasp, "No."

"You... you are sure, _cara__ mia_?" His voice is hoarse. I can't see him, but I can _see_ him.

Swallowing thickly, I nod, and again, find the strength to speak. "Please, Zev. Don't stop."

With a kiss pressed to my cheek, he slips back down, and his fingers resume massaging me internally and around my button. There is another slow re-approach to my hole, softly teasing this time, as if I had given him the exact thing he needed to proceed. Near my feet I hear a faint click, while he licks and tongues at me. It feels different and so good, like I've let go the fear. For now, I have – in this situation. There's no use in it, and I don't want it to taint this; it's too important. I can't allow those echoes to scare me.

Once I'm moaning, and pressing back into his mouth, he pulls away infuriatingly, but he is quick to reassure me. "I've no intention of stopping what I am doing, _cara_, I only wish to warm this up, so it will not be so cold."

I bless him silently for his forethought, for his kindness in this. I know he wouldn't simply shock me with sudden stimulation, not when the subject is so tender; I wouldn't have let him get anywhere near this if I didn't _fully_ have faith in that being a _fact_. There is a wet squirty noise, and then I hear him rubbing his hands together briskly. The backs of his knuckles touch the curve of my bum as he asks, "May I?"

I pause, trying to find the words. I can't say 'yes' to it, but I _can_ just... not say no. "I know you're pushing my boundaries. I promise to object if I feel like I have to... otherwise... just... don't stop." I shift on my knees, parting my thighs just that tiny amount to reinforce my words with non-verbal permission. Slippery wet fingers stroke along my crevice, smearing lubricant over me. The smallest of his fingers pushes gently against me, easing in slowly and teasing, the way his tongue had. He couples this with stroking along my sex and I moan, lost in it again, my eyes clenching behind the blindfold.

Just as I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed, I realize the song has changed again. "_My senses overflowing/Heightened awareness/I hear my blood flow/I feel its caress._" I find a laugh bubbling up jubilantly as this joins with his finger pushing in fully. Finally, one of his usual soft chuckles comes out; my Zev, he believes that lovemaking should be filled with laughter and happiness. He moves his finger inside me slowly, helping my muscles relax. This time he doesn't warm the lube up, but that feels kind of good too, the contrast between the heat building inside me, the heat of his hands, and the cold of the lube.

Zev switches fingers, larger than his pinky, and continues until he adds a second finger. I find myself rocking back and forth over the pillows, happy both for their support, and the way the silken rope doesn't chafe my wrists. I can tell he's been to _that_ store. I had been too embarrassed to go in, because I know the people who work there, but that doesn't ever mean he would be. Again with these _plans_ of his.

He moves to lay on his back, between my spread knees, his mouth going to my sex again and I mewl. Fingers and mouth, his breath, the breadth of his shoulders touching my thighs... I am so _gone_. It's not torture... not this time. The first time this subject was broached, he had promised me I would like it, and I should know by now that he always keeps his word.

I whimper at the eventual loss of his fingers, but they are replaced by a strange-textured touch. I take a deep breath, knowing that I have no objections, that there is _no__ reason_ to object. _I trust him._ So, rather than tense, I relax even more as I let that breath go, and then the thing – I suspect it's a narrow plug of some sort, but truly I'm feeling far too... mindless... to really think that through – is being eased into me. When it's seated, Zevran pulls away, and I finally – oh, thank gods, _finally_ – hear him kicking his jeans away. His hands curl over my hips as he settles himself between my thighs, and I keen when he pushes into my sheath, oh gods, at last, at last. I am so _full_.

Zevran is far from small, and I have never been anywhere _near_ unsatisfied, but something about this situation, the addition of what he filled me with, dramatically changes how his cock sits inside me. I feel him tense, his arms framing my upper body, and his breath comes in a pant as he struggles for some sort of control. It may have been painfully maddening days of no sex for me, but _I_ at least have been given release each day, at his behest. He, on the other hand, has apparently gone entirely without, if the extreme hardness of him is anything to go by. I've never felt him quite this thick and solid, like there's no give or flex at all, so filled is it with blood and arousal. Sagging on the bed, I roll my face over the mattress, fighting to hold still for him while he regains his composure, and to muffle my moaning a little.

And then he _moves_.

I scream, taken completely by surprise by how electrifyingly transcendent the sudden sensation is. I find myself babbling incoherently as he glides slowly in and out, then all the way in, grinding and circling his hips against me. I swear, I am dying. I'm not toast, I'm not burning up, I am exploding in light, even though I am nowhere near orgasm again. I can feel it building, crashing and forcing itself up from our joined sexes. Usually he hits either my g-spot or that place near my cervix, but with the extra filling, somehow he is hitting both, stroking over them, and he rocks back, a hand tangling in my hair.

My nipples are tight and then go soft, tingling; I am awash in sensation: the rub of cotton from the pillowcases grinds against my stomach, the short curly crisp hairs that frame the base of his length stroke against my skin, the taut muscles of his outer thighs pressing to my inner... At some point my voice disappeared, lodged in my throat. I am insane, wild, wanton... downright _whorish_, and, in this moment, shamelessly so... but only for him.

The music has receded to a faint counterpoint, a beat that my husband, my Zevran, my, my, my, _mine_ is following. I freeze as a crescendoing tsunami picks me up, slams me down, and my voice is found. I scream again, a full-throated wail that expels every ounce of oxygen in my lungs.

I sob brokenly when he pulls out, the sudden loss the most horrible thing ever. He refills me with his fingers, which is just not nearly enough, not nearly enough at all, but then the ropes around my wrists go slack, and are jerked away. I scrabble and grab and clutch at the bed, thankful for the leverage this gives me. Kisses rain down over me again: shoulders, neck, back, hips, ass. He is parting me, tongue running around the little stopper that prevents the plug from being sucked in deep or pushed out. I squirm in the aftershocks and the extra sensation, raising myself up on my elbows, pushing back into him, biting into the covers in my madness.

His tongue, nearly as deft as his fingers, works the plug from me slowly, easing it out so that he can wrap his mouth around the base and tug it from me, leaving me empty in tortuous, wonderful cruelty. "_Let yourself go/Let yourself go/Let your feelings show_", throbs through the room and my mind, and I don't notice that I'm mouthing the words until the plug is fully out of me, and Zevran is laying alongside me, his hands cupping my face, turning me to face him so he can kiss me.

Oh, his kiss; he still tastes faintly of melon, but also of my juices, and other parts of me. It is all _him_. It is heady, and I am drunk and high off it. I mumble against his mouth, thoughtlessly, artless and entirely guileless, the thing I've only ever said twice: "I love you..." It just slips out; I don't mean to say it, but it's true, inescapable in its perfect completeness. Fortunately, it is well-received, for one of his arms wraps around my shoulders and he squeezes me, kissing me again.

I sigh softly when he moves away again, but I knew there would be more – he didn't allow himself to finish. Besides, I know what has still been left undone. His actions twist with my emotions and the music, the lyrics that fit everything perfectly. They fit me, him, us, and _this_. All I can do is let myself go. "_Let your spirit grow/Step out of your cage/Step onto the stage_." Dave Gahan's voice and words spur me to mirror the message, and just on the edges, I can hear Zevran singing again, too, and that gives Depeche Mode's song that much more weight, just as the music gives Zev's actions that extra weight, as well.

A soothing, massaging press to my cheeks pushes me open, and I feel him rubbing the underside of his sticky-slick prick along me, before he pulls back enough to press the head to my hole. He curves over me, stroking the back of my head one-handed, his voice low. "Lily, my beautiful wife – I love you, so I must tell you one last time: I can stop if you need me to, at any point."

Oh gods, that... I've always understood how he feels about me; I always knew. I could hear it in his voice, in his words, I could feel it in his touch and the weight of his gaze on me. He's said it in Antivan, and with every little action. It's silly, but him saying it in English, in Common, Ferelden – whatever language this is... that sends me over. He could ask anything of me in the whole godsdamned world, and I would give it to him without thought. I know what he really wants: he wants me to lean on him without having to make me, or begging me to, _before_ I reach the point where I cannot continue without help; he wants me to tell him what I need or want, _before_ it becomes so critical that the situation is dire. Right now, I want _him_. I want him _in_ me, in a way that _shows_ him that I trust him, so wholly I can't even see straight. Love isn't _always_ about trust, and I know I love him, but sometimes it's about faith, too... like now.

I rock my hips back into him, wordlessly pleading. "I have faith in you, my love... don't stop." His sigh is relieved and I can feel his hand against my ass as he braces himself, as he pushes slowly against me, pausing every few moments so that I can adjust. A squelching sound precedes more lube, as he drizzles it over both of us, and his fingers keep my cheeks held apart. Refusing now to let him continue doing all the work, I reach back and hold myself open for him, to make it easier for both of us. No matter what I say, it is what I _do_ that matters, and right now, it is what I do that must communicate for me: I want this.

His now-freed hand sets to massaging around my entrance, coaxing it open so that my body can accept his thick girth. There is only a faint burning as I stretch that vaguely reminds me of being spanked: a tingly warm burn, far from unpleasant. We moan in unison as he crowns past the initial ring of muscles, but he maintains a slow steady, _measured_ pace, easing himself partially out and then farther in, with each little push forward.

"_Feel the fever coming/You're shaking and twitching/You can scratch all over/But that won't stop you itching/Can you feel a little love?_" Oh, my heart. The _lyrics_. I _am_ shaking and twitching, and so is he. Zevran is scratching an itch, and I can feel far more than 'a little love', right now.

I hear him moaning – oh, gods, _moaning_ – and I reach up with a shaking hand to pull away my blindfold; I need to see him. His head is thrown back, mouth open, a look of devotion on his face as he maintains his calm. He is all things beautiful right here, right now. He curls over me once more, his eyes opening slowly and that look... it is far more intense, far more full of something that isn't so simply equated to 'love', 'worship', 'friendship', 'trust' or any other word. Words are shadows of that look. There is an amazed, blissful peace in there. Gods, oh gods, he is beautiful.

I feel like I am breaking apart just from that look. Nothing, in this world or any other, is that perfect. Slowly, he licks his lips, his hips against mine as tight as they can be. "_Cara_."

All I can do is bite my lip, staring into his eyes over my shoulder. I want to tell him I love him, all over again; I want to tell him I trust him, that I need him, that I want him, and only him, but the words... all of them are completely inadequate. There's only one word for this: "Zev."

I'm not sure how long we are like that, held together, but finally I am the one to move. I can't stand the waiting anymore; I need him too much. Arching my back, I roll my hips under his and he _moans_. My Zev is usually so quiet, but this is _loud_. His lips latch onto my shoulder as he sets a long, slow pace. I am stretched tight and hot around him, and it feels right... _safe_.

We sway apart and together, and it is so slow that it is _exquisite_. I am so _not_ a fan of gradual lovemaking, but this, tonight, everything... this is completely different. If I had known how this would go, I would have done anything for the feeling of him, and the sound that is now filling my ears – he has become downright _vocal_. Zevran isn't speaking words at all, simply making the sort of sounds I would, if my throat weren't so raw.

There is no burn, there is no discomfort, or fear, or anything; there is nothing outside of us, being joined to him, and oh, the sound of his voice. I have been unable to look away from him, a sort of clarity hanging over me, wrapping me up in its arms, just as his arms wrap around me, sliding under my body to keep us together so tightly. This is an upward spiral of intensity that is no longer frightening, not with him, not at all. His pace never falters, even as I feel him beginning to twitch and pulse inside me, his voice rising louder and – oh gods – louder. I am amazed at how slow my breathing is, at how my heart isn't trip-hammering in my chest, in spite of how my body shakes.

A sudden heat fills me up, and I can feel it splashing as he pulses. I'm so breathless and voiceless, I can't even moan, even as my own purity begins to edge towards a pinnacle. One of his hands slithers between us, down my stomach, aiming for my sex, and I reach between us, halting him. His eyes pop open, a flash of worry on his face that I am quick to banish by rocking against him, encouraging him onward. I want my orgasm to reach me without extra help. I want it to come from what he is doing to me right now; I want him to have just _one__ thing_ that I've never given to anyone else, that I've never been given by another. I want it to come from the fact of all the deeper, underlying meanings and implications of this act, not from the familiar touch of his fingers on my nubbin.

Under me, our fingers entwine, and we continue as we were. His eyes drift open and closed, but I am unable to look away – nor do I want to. For once, as I find completion, my eyes remain open, taking in all of his reactions. He looks so peaceful, and I think that's part of what sends me over. A high keen breaks from me, my voice randomly returning, just after I feel him pulse again.

I can sense his reluctance to pull away from me, and I agree, even though I know he's trying to spare me the pain of being locked in this position for too long. So instead, I reach back, grasping his hip. "Stay... please."

I watch him blink rapidly, before ducking his face into my shoulder a moment. "Anything," he mumbles, holding me tight as he rolls us onto our sides, remaining buried deep within the place that's only ever been used to hurt me, before.

"_Precious and fragile things/Need special handling." _Dave Gahan's voice makes a few more tears spill over my cheeks. I'm glad Zev can't see my face right now... But... then again, I think I feel a few bits of moisture on my shoulder, too. "_We always try to share/The tenderest of care._" I find myself singing along this time. "_Things get damaged/things get broken/I thought we'd manage..._"Funny, it seems it's a night for songs that are too apt.

Then again, he planned this.

Squeezing his wrists, I lean my head back, and Zev tucks his chin over my shoulder, resting his head against mine. Together we sigh, just quietly listening to these songs that are saying the things that need to be said, in words that can't be spoken.

The complete trust that I have in him... I thought this could never happen to me, not really. The only reason that Zev gets it is because I can bare every scrap of my darkness, and he would never even think to flinch. He's seen the worst that can happen to anyone, anywhere, and it doesn't scare him. He knows. That is powerful; it's a power that I didn't think anyone could have, not for me. He _knows__,_ to such an extent that I could let him do _this_, that I can give him _everything_.

I tried, once, to do that, but it backfired and made me hurt and bleed ten thousand times more. For so long, I've held to the idea that no one is that skilled or understanding, but while my experiences will never be erased, they can be overwritten; the things that were done can never be undone, but they can be buried under the weight of better things. I'll never forget my fear, but this, him, us, all of it – it gives me a thing to hold up to the light, as an example of How It Should Be, a beacon in the darkness... a light to guide me home.

"_Angels with silver wings/Shouldn't know suffering._" Oh, gods, I hope you're listening.

_Depeche Mode songs represented: World in My Eyes, Enjoy the Silence, Macro, Freestate, Dream On, and Precious_


	17. Blessings

It's after dark one night, about two-and-a-half weeks after our handfasting, when I'm going out to the truck, ostensibly to fetch my cell phone. I purposely ̒forgot' it, so that I'd have an excuse to come out here. What I really did is order Zev some special food. I stumbled across a website offering Spanish and Italian homefoods, and... I just couldn't resist.

I've never got him a present before... not technically, because it was Lily Mahariel who gave him the gloves, and the boots, and all the other stuff. I got him four pounds of torrefacto coffee beans, two big bottles of what I hope will turn out to be ̒proper' olive oil, and a box of some confection called turrón that's made with honey. I know he's a sucker for honey, so maybe he'll like that, too. I wrapped the whole box in several layers of taped tissue-paper, so hopefully he'll even have to tear into it.

I am opening the door and looking up at the sky, reaching behind the seat and digging around by feel, when I realize that I'm looking up at the waning crescent of the moon. The full moon has come and gone, without my marking it. I stand there, box in hand, staring up at the sky in disbelief. Oh, do I dare to hope? One thing at a time. I've got a box of pregnancy tests stashed in the bathroom, under the sink. First the package, then the test. We shall see if I've got news on top of presents, soon enough.

Coming back into the house, I plop down on the couch next to Zev and lean against his shoulder, distracting him from his book. "I've got something for you," I say, a little nervous, but mostly excited to see his reaction. Before he can say anything, I set the box in his lap. It's got to weigh nearly ten pounds.

"What is this?" He lays his book aside and picks it up, turning it around in his hands.

"A present."

"Yes, but what is it?"

I laugh. "That's the nature of a present, honey. You have to open it to find out."

I giggle as he tugs on the ends of the paper, and it rips instead of coming loose. He gives up trying to be careful and just tears open the tissue paper, revealing the box with the website's logo across it. He gives me an arched eyebrow, but I just smile. He reaches down next to him, his hand dropping behind the box briefly, and coming back up with a knife that he flips open quickly, parting the packing tape. The knife folds and disappears just as easily – I still have yet to figure out where he puts them, even though he's let me search him before, laughing at me all the while. I suspect that he kept moving them while I did that, but I'll never know for sure.

He peels open the lid and pushes aside the bubble-wrap, revealing four green sacks on top, labelled 'Spanish Coffee'.

"Spanish? Not Italian?" he asks, a tiny bit of confusion crossing his face.

I laugh a little. "Just open a bag and smell it! You were saying that what we get here is too sharp, weren't you? Just– go on, go on!" I encourage him, waving my hands at him happily.

He complies, sceptical at first, until he gets the bag open and takes a sniff. He leans back, surprised, then takes a full breath, practically burying his nose in the bag. "Ah, _cara_, how did you know?" he purrs, and I giggle.

"I was researching coffees with low acidity, and came across this. Considering how Spanish-influenced our diet is, I thought maybe the coffee you're used to might come from Spain, too." He smiles, and I wave at the box. "There's more. Keep digging." I am practically giddy, as he glows with poorly concealed glee. Really, I should have done this sooner... It's so easy to forget, because he never asks for anything, but, like he said to me a few weeks ago, just because he doesn't ask for things, doesn't mean he doesn't deserve them.

Under the coffee is the box of turrón, resting neatly on top of the two large bottles of olive oil. "Ah!" he exclaims, seizing the box of honey candies. "Torrone! Awesome! Oh! And oil?"

"Is it green enough?" I ask, a little nervously, as he pulls out a bottle and holds it up to the light.

"_Sì; sì, cara mia,_ it is beautiful, perfect. Thank you," he assures me. Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, he leans in and kisses me softly, pulling me tightly against his side. I can't help but melt into him, as always, but I am also impatient, tonight, and wriggle free after a moment.

"I'll be right back," I say, as he arches an eyebrow at me. I practically scamper back to the bathroom, and lock the door. Not that this will be a deterrent to him, if he is determined to come in, but I doubt he'll think of it, not as quick as I intend to be. I whip out the package from under the sink and quickly do the deed. I stand there, watching the little windows with stuttering heart as the ink darkens, solidifying... into two lines. The world spins around me, and I grab the edge of the bathroom counter, losing a breath.

Oh gods, we did it.

I run into the door, forgetting I locked it, in my haste to bolt for the living room, cursing as I fumble with the latch and yank it open. Zev heard me in my irritation, and is already halfway to me when I burst out of the bedroom, dashing toward him. "_Cara_? What is wrong?" he asks, before seeing my face. He stops, looking at the test in my hand. "What is that?"

"It's a pregnancy test," I say, practically jumping up and down. "Look, it shows one line for me, and then there's a second one, if there's a baby," I explain breathlessly, pushing it into his hand.

He sways, eyes going wide, before I am crushed to his chest. "_Cara_, aie, _grazie_ Maker, gifts, aie, oh..." he babbles, incoherently. As suddenly as he yanks me to him, he pushes me back by my shoulders, smiling goofily down at my hips. "I suspected... but..." I bite my lip, beaming up at him and giggling. This causes him to squish me again, but I notice that he's careful to not press his hips too close to my stomach, as though such a little thing would hurt me or our child. _Our child._ Gods, I think I may just fall over. Good thing Zev's got his arms around me.

After the last time with Tommy, and the time before that when he forced me to go to that _butcher_... I had been frightened that this may not happen. I had been _told_ that this probably _wouldn't_ happen. Oh, I am blessed... so blessed. For anyone other than him, I don't think I'd be so happy – in fact, I'd be terrified, but right now, the only thing I fear is that I may lose my feet. I'm filled with joy, and I'm clearly not the only one, because Zev – my Zev – is _giggling_, like he ate a whole pan of Sofia's brownies, downed some of Elric's mead, and then smoked two joints in fifteen minutes, oh, and the pride in his eyes takes my breath away.

It only takes another week for me to start feeling sick. He finds it strange that I am happy to be throwing up, until I explain that I can be happy about it because of what it means, even though it makes me miserable. And oh, if I thought I was pampered before, hah. He practically hovers. It takes me all of that week to convince him that I'm not going to shatter if I sneeze, and, reluctantly, after I show him half a dozen articles all corroborating my stance that continuing my normal life is not going to put us at risk of anything, he finally lets me get back to work. I have to swear to him that I will not try to move any of the furniture myself, but at least I can get back to building, and he settles back down into our old routine. Mostly.

He takes to randomly showing up in the shop and grabbing me about the hips, spreading his hands over my stomach, where my jeans are starting to get just the tiniest bit too tight. So September fades and Jack comes 'round to help Zev pour a slab for the foundation of an addition he's suddenly decided to build onto the house. He'll brook no argument about it. "Your sewing room must remain a sewing room, _cara_, or where will you do that work, hm? No. We need a nursery, and so I shall build one." I know how to pick my battles by now, and this is his way of nesting, I think, so I leave him to it. I know Jack will keep him in line with the right permits and whatnot. I actually kinda look forward to picking out wallpaper and carpet.

Oh man, I'm such a girl. Who knew.

The full moon of October wanes and waxes toward half again, putting us a week away from Hallowe'en, and Zev becomes thrilled with the idea that we celebrate one of the same holidays, almost, as it coincides with Satinalia, and he insists that we attend some kind of masquerade, so I've been working on a couple of costumes for us. He'll be a pirate, and I'll be a wench; a little bit of cheating, but I don't quite have enough time to make all-new garb for us, so mainly I just make a couple of masks and rearrange some of our existing stuff. I find myself thankful that I usually make everything draw-string, because all my skirts are just a bit too tight, where they're tied, and I have to loosen them to make room for my little bump.

I am deliriously happy – no, scratch that: we are. It seems like we are constantly kissing and snuggling, his arms always around me, his hands across my stomach, murmuring to me every day about how proud he is to watch it curve, and, though I am still sick with it, I know I am glowing. I have never felt more loved and, with Zev, that's kinda saying something.

On his typical Saturday foray to the park, I'm in the shop, painting a coat of varnish on a table when my cell goes off, playing ̒Fat Bottomed Girls'. I laugh, knowing that he's changed the ringtone for himself again. I step outside, taking off my respirator (can't let the fumes get to me, not when I'm pregnant), and flip it open. "Zev?"

"_Caraaa_ – could you... come get me from the park? As in... _now,_ if you please?"

I am already in motion, heading for the house and my keys. The tone in his voice is odd, and makes me nervous. "What? Why? What's wrong?" I toss my mask down on the chair inside the door, and grab my keys off the hook.

"Oh, do you remember that woman of no good repute who made eyes at me at the market?"

"What, the second day you were here?" I ask with sinking heart, knowing that it has to be Maria. I lock the door behind me, heading for the truck.

"Yes. She is bothering me, and will not go away. She apparently thinks that I must be unhappy, as I do not wear a ring. She seems to believe this is some sort of signal that I am looking for easy pussy." He snorts as he uses some of the dirtier words he has picked up from living here, and I curse under my breath.

"Yeah, her and her ̒mossy grotto'," I say, bitterly, and he laughs. I open the truck door and slam it behind me, pushing the keys into the ignition.

"I do not wish to make a scene, but the other women at the park are starting to become angry with her, as well. They know I am taken, and she does not seem to get the hint, no matter how often they come over with their children to speak with me, in the clear hopes of making her go away."

"I'm on my way, honey. Gotta hang up." I kiss the mouthpiece, even as I hear him doing the same, and then fold it up. That fucking whore. I'll skin her ass for lampshades.

I have to force myself not to speed. Arriving at the park does nothing for my fury. She is standing way too close to him, trying to rub up on him; he's got that carefully relaxed stance that is far too still, the one that tells me he's working at keeping himself opaque, and he's just never quite where she expects him to be, so she doesn't manage to actually touch him. She'd have to throw herself on him just to get anywhere, but the very thought makes my blood boil. I close my eyes, white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying to get a grip. "_I do not wish to make a scene,"_ he said, and I can see the sense in it, but gods, oh gods, give me strength, because I feel positively murderous right now.

I take a few deep breaths and wipe at my face with my shirt cuffs, then finally get out of the truck. I wave to a few of the mothers nearby. One of them winks at me, and another looks smugly at Maria, expecting her to be put in her place. I have no idea what I'm going to say to the bitch. I don't know if I can trust myself to even open my mouth, at this point.

Her smug, superior look alights on me with disdain, and she condescends to me, pretending to be friendly. "Oh, hiiiii Lily. I was just saying to Zev here-," _Ooh, bite your tongue, you whore, you don't get to call him that! _"- that it's so _strange_..." She makes the word have two syllables. 'Stray-inge'. I try really hard not to twitch. "...you not being in the park with him, like, _ever_. Do you share _any_ interests, I wonder? Seems so... _neglectful_." She actually has the nerve to ̒tsk' at me. That's how she got River away from me, oh, a few years ago, when I tried to date one of the boys from the Quinault reservation. I stand right next to Zev, needing to feel his warmth against my side, just to steady myself enough that I don't leap on her like a heathen and try to beat the shit out of her.

At this, my ever-so-smooth Antivan wraps an arm around my waist. "She understands that I like to have some private time, as so often we are inseparable. There are only so many hours anyone can spend with the same person and still be overjoyed by their presence. But ah, I am blessed with my wife..." An almost painfully saccharine smile crosses his face. "Which has resulted in her current condition, and, so to not stress her, I do find myself shooed from the house at times..." His grin turns genuine as he looks down at me, seemingly unable to stop himself from gently laying his palm over my stomach. "Besides," he murmurs, "I find that if she misses me a little bit, things get very... interesting." Oh, how his touch puts the fire of crazy-jealous-bitch right out. I smile up at him, stupidly happy once more.

My stomach growls, audibly. "Ooh, I suddenly need curry, like, now. And raspberry ice cream. We have to go." My mouth waters at the prospect of grabbing some take-out from the Indian place on our way back home. I've almost forgotten Maria's presence; that is, until she says something else.

"Hmh, yeah, 'cause that'll keep you skinny. Well, honey, you know where to find me, when you're ready for a thoroughbred, yeah?" She bats her (long, fake) eyelashes at Zev and turns, thrusting out her chest, swaybacked to pop out her ass, as well, showing off her little tramp-stamp. _Ooh, that bitch, bringing up my mixed blood. No, I'm not _all _Native, you whore, but at least I'm not a chola._

I tremble as she walks away, summoning a monumental force of will to hold my tongue as Zev steers me back toward the truck. "Can I throw up on her?" I whisper, my hands flexing as I try to stop their shaking.

He chuckles. "Unwise. That would require being close to her long enough to do so."

I snort, climbing into the truck again. "It might be worth it. I'm sure her perfume could inspire a great display in short order." He shuts the door and gets in on his side. "I hate her so much," I seethe, pulling out of the lot. "She did that on purpose."

"Hate is such a strong word; she is far from worth it." He waves a dismissive hand. "Bitches like that, they do not even get paid for it, and I doubt they even enjoy it that much; I do not know why they waste their time and everyone else's."

"You're still the first man of mine she hasn't been able to get her hands on," I say, quietly.

"Ehh..." He shudders. "I might _catch_ something. I feel diseased just standing in the same area." That says a lot.

"Yeah, no joke. I caught the clap from her once." He applauds, and I refrain from banging my head on the steering wheel as I groan-laugh at his horrible pun. He is in rare, saucy form today. "Yes, well, I didn't find it so funny at the time."

"Shall I do something unpleasant to her?"

This gives me pause. I want to say ̒yes', but... "Uh... like what?"

"Nothing illegal, I assure you... Unless, ruining someone's life is... illegal?"

Oh, this is interesting. "Uh... it depends entirely on how you go about it. What have you got in mind?"

"Oh, maybe I pass on the fact that she spreads sexual diseases... maybe tell a doctor... I have read that this is illegal. Oh!" He snaps his fingers. "I know: I could tell Jack."

"Hmmm... it's only illegal if you do it on purpose, and it's hard to prove intent. Besides, I don't exactly want it spread around that Maria's managed to bang my boyfriends up to this point."

"Mmm-yes, good point." He chews on it for a minute while I pop into the Indian place and pick up a couple of curries. When I get back, he says, "Perhaps a... prank, yes? Elric is always up for a little bitch bashing."

I laugh. "Ah, okay... I'm not going to complain if some minor misfortune befalls her. In fact, I'm willing to bet that a lot of women in the area would thank you."

"Oh, nonono. You know Elric... his preferences aren't really toward women, so there are a lot of _very attractive_ men in the Barbarian Horde... I'm sure she could have a series of unfortunate boyfriends. So attractive, and so unattainable. Oh, dear me. They invite her out for coffee..."

"Yeah?"

"And then not... ah... you know."

"Close the deal."

He laughs. "_Exactly._"

I gasp, hardly daring to believe it. "You would sic the Horde on her?"

Even from the corner of my eye, I can see that grin. "Why not? Like I said, they like a bit of bitch bashing when it's justly deserved. Besides, no one crosses their baby."

"You're not their ̒baby'..."

"Of course I wasn't talking about _me_," he retorts, rolling his eyes and laughing.

I can feel my cheeks heat up. "When did I become the ̒baby' of the Viking Horde?"

He shrugs. "By association with Sofia."

I blink. "Ah. Weird."

"Well, and because you're _my_ baby."

I nod. "Mmh. That makes more sense."

"Association with Sofia would make far more sense," he protests. "...Though Elric did threaten to make me into pudding if I ever upset you," he adds wryly.

"He what?" How the hell do I inspire this kind of loyalty in people?

"He said he would make me into pudding if I ever upset you," he repeats, chuckling at my surprise. "He was just discharging his duty; it made me like him much more, actually."

I shake my head. I get it, I do, but... "Men are strange creatures."

He snorts. "You say this, and _you_ bleed from your crotch for five days out of every month."

My brow furrows. "Uh... how did we go from ̒men are strange' to ̒I'm having my period'?"

"There is a rule amongst the Crows: trust nothing that bleeds for five days and doesn't die. Some of the most ruthless masters and guild-masters were women. They were truly terrifying."

I think of the most famous female murderers and torturers in history and shudder. "I believe it. And yet, you trust me."

"What can I say, I put _your_ pussy on a pedestal. Besides, all the better for me to be able to get my face in it." I choke, turning off the engine, and look over at him in disbelief. He just laughs at me; he says these things simply to break my brain, I know it, and yet it still works, every time.

"So, we're home now," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt, but he only sits there, sprawled in the corner, eyeing me with a smirk on his face.

"Do you feel the sudden need to mark your territory, my dear?"

Oh. "Ah..." I giggle, in spite of myself. Actually... "Yes."

"Good," he purrs, his voice dropping to that sexy rasp that makes me shiver. "I hope you rub your scent all over me. I wish to be inundated with it."

I bolt from the truck before he can decide that the front seat is a prime location.

The curries are cold by the time I remember them.

Hallowe'en sees us at Elric's place, where I am pretty much waited on hand and foot by the entire Horde, despite my protests. Elric made a special pitcher of "Lily Juice" specifically for me, because I can't participate in the alcohol, and I have to admit, whatever he put in the punch is really, really tasty. One of the boys puts a paper crown on my head, dubbing me 'Queen Wench', and I am then carried about the house – inside and out, up stairs and down – in a big, heavy-armed chair to preside over the various contests, where I am the one who must judge the winners.

Mostly, this entails me pointing imperiously at one or the other of the two left standing at the end of the contests, and then Elric gives them something shiny and cool. So, one guy gets an old-style pirate's treasure chest for singing the most bawdy song, and another guy gets a chess-set – oh, man, it's one of mine – for being the most fleet-footed in a race, and then I award 'best costume' to this group that came dressed as the crew of the Serenity, from 'Firefly'. Man, their Zoe and Wash are spot-on. Elric awards them each a bottle of Persephone mead.

When I express my disbelief in the entire situation to Sofia, she just laughs, leaning toward me, and says, "Well, hey, enjoy it, o thou goddess of the harvest." I snort as she pats my tummy gently. "Think of it this way: how many of _these_ men do you think have _ever_ vied for a _woman's_ attention, hm?"

"Ah, you're right. It's kinda weird, when you put it that way." She laughs.

"No, it's not weird at all! You're the Harvest Queen this year. Revel in it. How many times will you be able to say that?"

"True enough," I concede.

The boys finish their sparring contest, leaving just one Barbarian standing, and I have to admit, he really does fight like Alistair. It's a little disconcerting to watch, but he's all fluid motion. Not nearly as fast as Zev, but they'd make a hell of a good team, and I'm extremely impressed.

Elric hands me a drinking horn, nodding toward the warrior, as the man comes over to me and goes down to one knee. Ah! This contest must be more important than the others, because I didn't have to actually 'award' the gifts, before this. What the hell do I say? Okay, I'm the queen, right? I straighten up a little bit and put on a campy air of regal-ness.

"What is your name, proud warrior?"

A smirk twitches his lips up to the side, but he plays along. "Halfdan Geirson, your majesty."

"You have acquitted yourself heroically on the field of battle. As a reward for your valour, I present you with this... worthy drinking vessel." I lay it in his hands and smile at him. He catches my hand before I can draw back, and kisses my fingers, giving me a rakish grin and looking at me from the tops of his eyes. I snatch my hand back, but he's an extremely handsome guy – exactly the sort of man I might've gone for, before Zev – and it makes me blush hotly. He laughs, and several of the Barbarians behind him groan. I look around, confused, until he is standing amongst them again, and the groaners are handing over five-dollar bills.

I bury my face in my hands and hear Zev laugh quietly by my shoulder. "That was embarrassing," I whisper, as his arm comes 'round my shoulders, and I lean into him. He kisses my forehead.

"Ah, but it was good fun!" he chuckles, clearly remembering that bet he made with Alistair over Morrigan.

Which... also makes _me_ remember about that bet. "You put them up to it, didn't you."

He gives me an enigmatic little smile. "Who? Me? Surely, you jest." I arch an eyebrow at him, completely unconvinced of his innocence. "Ah, so you have me all figured out, do you?" he purrs, leaning in closer to my ear and causing me to shiver involuntarily. "Then... I shall say no more than _'maybe'_, my beautiful Queen of Satinalia!" I sigh, exasperated, but I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

Elric declares it time for the Masquerade to commence, and cranks up the music. As people get a little further into their cups, Captain Lydia breaks out the Mardi Gras beads, and Captain MacIrvine – not to be outdone – hands out several cloved fruits. The Peckish Dragon, ever known for their spice. I watch happily as the dance becomes instantly more hedonistic, as people try to gather beads and give each other signals with cloves.

A young guy, fairly cute, apparently has steeled himself enough to come present the Queen Wench with a piece of fruit, and I laugh. I take it from him, looking between it and him as he stands there and blushes, weaving slightly. "Ah, sweet boy, how old are you?" I ask, as I've never seen him before.

He goes to one knee, bowing his head, and I struggle not to giggle. "Twenty-two, your majesty," he responds, and I can't help it now; I do giggle.

"It's awfully brave of you to present the Queen with a cloved fruit, you realize."

"Yes, m'lady, however, I've got a bottle of Devil Juice riding on it. The Horde believed that I wouldn't be brave enough to hand an orange to Zev's lady." I arch an eyebrow.

"Well, you've done it. Now what?"

He bites his lip and is entirely unsuccessful in hiding his grin. "Entirely up to you, of course," he replies, bowing even further. I snort and pull a clove out with my fingers. "Fair enough," he says, nodding, and kisses the back of my hand before grinning wickedly. "Thank you, m'lady," he says, backing away, and I watch him go, amused.

"Hmm, what is this game?" Zev asks, leaning over to take the orange from me.

"It is a game of offers," I explain as he turns it over in his fingers. "You pass it to one whose favour you hope to win, and they remove a clove. I've heard that in most places, the game's really simple: you take a clove out with your teeth if you want to be kissed, and then pass it on. But around here, it's a lot more complicated, and what, specifically, is done with the clove indicates the invitation given. Removing one with the fingers and tossing it away is a flat rejection. It's considered to be kind of rude, and I've only seen someone do that once, when it wasn't a mutual understanding. With the fingers, but keeping it: a kiss of the hand. With the fingers, but then popping it in your mouth: a kiss on the cheek. With the lips, but spitting it out: an invitation for a chaste kiss. With the lips, but keeping it in the mouth: an invitation for the other person to retrieve it, shown by the clove being retained on the tongue..." I point, as I see one of the belly dancers do just that, and Zev's smile grows just a little darker. "...And if they swallow it, well... that's a clear invitation for far more than a kiss."

He shakes his head, smiling. "So, then I must pass this fruit to someone else, yes?"

I nod. "You hand it to someone whose answer you know, if you just want to get rid of it. Like, you could hand it to Jack, for instance, and he'd just toss one out, which wouldn't be an insult, because you both know what his answer would be. Most likely, he'd then give it to Sofia, who'd probably swallow one, and then she'd give it to Elric or one of his boys, who would either toss one out, or, if they like her, might try to get her to give them a kiss on the cheek. It really gets interesting when you end up with a fruit that only has one clove left. That fruit is an invitation from the _giver_ for... well, tent time. If the receiver takes the fruit at all, it's a 'yes'." Zev arches an eyebrow, but before he can say anything else, we are interrupted.

Captain Lydia, dressed as an Arabian Nights concubine, stumbles over to us on the arm of the man dressed like Malcolm Reynolds. "Hey, hey Zevran." She leans over the back of my chair and giggles, looking down at him. He arches an eyebrow. "The fire dancers are setting up," she says, a huge grin spreading over her face, and I bite my lip, looking at him.

"Ahh... hmm." He looks at me, smirking. "Do you wish me to play with fire, _cara mia_?" he asks, a knowing look in his eye. I haven't seen him do it but the once, at our handfasting, after he'd taken about half a dozen shots of rum, and had allowed himself to be talked into it. He'd let a stray comment drop about how the man with the poi needed some more direction, which led into a lot of pointed questions from Elric and Lydia, and eventually culminated in a display worthy of Dustfinger himself.

Well... Then again, I may be a little biased.

"Mmh... you're going to vie for the favour of the queen?" I tease him.

"Oh, I must vie for it now?" he asks, rising and kicking off his boots. "Well then, may my efforts be pleasing to you, _mia regina_." And with that, off comes his shirt, which he tosses into my lap with a wink.

I gather it up, unashamedly pressing it to my face and giggling. The next thing I know, he's dousing himself in water – oh, I have to hide my face again, watching it cascade over his naked chest and stomach, and the way his shoulders flex when he turns his back toward us, talking with one of the fire dancers and pulling his hair back tightly. Sofia laughs at me. "Oh, you got it baaad, girlfriend." What do I say to that? Guilty as charged. All I can do is giggle some more.

I watch the fan-dancers spin arcs of feathery flame into the night sky, and then two men with staves do mock battle with invisible foes. Three of them line up to breathe fire, and I watch – amazed, as always – as they pass a flame from one to the next, each blowing in turn. At last, I see Zev light the poi, and I know he's going next. I bite my lip, trying to control myself, but really, he makes me feel like I'm a cat in a catnip field, whenever he's anywhere near me; watching the steam rising off him while the firelight arcs around him in complicated patterns has me pressing my thighs together.

I stand up when he's finished, everyone clapping and huzzah-ing over all the fire dancers, and Elric's awarding Bethany a Tablero set for her fan dance. I slip around the outside of the crowd while everyone is looking at her, carrying Zev's shirt. He finds me when I'm trying to pick my way around the tables and chairs set up on the side of the patio and pulls me behind the stairs, where we're nominally blocked from the view of the crowd. He presses me up against the side of the porch, looking down at me with eyes drowning deep, and my heart picks up as he smirks knowingly at my sudden breathlessness.

I wrap my arms around his neck, arching into him, and the heat radiating from his skin goes straight through my shirt. "So, shall I consider your attentions properly vied for, hmmn, _amora_?" A too-hot hand is already questing its way into my panties, which makes me gasp, and him purr. "Ah, and so they are..."

I giggle. It's good to be the queen.


	18. Marking Time

The day dawns cold and foggy, a crystalline haze to the air that bites the skin and cuts straight through my t-shirt as I join Zev on the porch. He slipped past me while I was retching, knowing I cannot stand to be touched while I'm being sick, and made me some ginger tea. After I've finished, I have to go outside, where it's cold, to cool off. I pull my coat around me more tightly and slump in the chair next to him, accepting the mug gratefully. He runs a finger down my cheek, looking at my face. "Does it hurt, _amora_?"

I look at my reflection in the window and see all the blood freckles on my face. Amongst the other pleasant things that happen to one while pregnant, I have discovered that frequent retching plus being pale-skinned results in the breakage of a ton of the tiny little capillaries in the skin, resulting in my new, highly attractive 'measles' look. I look so pale and kind of hollow. I sigh. "Well, it doesn't feel that great when it's happening - it's like little points of fire all over my face - but it doesn't hurt now that it's finished."

He runs his fingers through my hair and kisses my cheeks and my forehead softly. "Would you like me to make something to help in their healing?"

I blink at him. "You can do that? I thought you only knew poisons and cooking."

"Ah..." he laughs. "..._and_ antidotes, pain killers, hallucinogens, euphorics, alcohol, and many other substances of the trade. Some compounds are best when applied to the skin to be absorbed. What better carrier than a beauty cream?" A smirk plays about his lips. "I actually had a small cottage industry amongst my peers for them. It was always a good way to make a little extra coin."

It never fails to amaze me when he says things like this, when he talks about things that are entirely outside of my writing and canon history. I mean, I _know_ he must have had a life, and done things, before the point where Gaider started writing about him, but it just still kind of freaks me out to think about the fact that, somewhere, Thedas actually exists, and there are people there, right now, living out their lives. I think maybe, one day, I'll Netflix "The Thirteenth Floor", and we can _both_ have an existential crisis. "If you think it would help, I'd be happy to try it... Though, I'll just have more tomorrow."

"Ah, but it would still be soothing, yes?" he asks, and I can see that little protective - alright, not so 'little' - streak flash in his eyes. Like the tea in my hands, and the small plate of biscotti (After he found out about that site he can't seem to be without many of its items. Gods, the cost of keeping him in his coffee, cheese, olive oil, chocolate, and olives habit is no joke, never mind the prosciutto and the specially air-lifted tomatoes from time to time.) this is just one of those things he does to make sure I am not only happy, but as healthy as he can make me be.

"Hmm... After starting my morning like that every day, the idea of you putting lotion on my face actually seems pretty appealing. It's always so hot and puffy, after," I admit, touching my cheek gingerly. It doesn't hurt, not really, but it doesn't feel very good, either.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Then today I shall have to see to making some. Now," again, he pushes the plate at me, "I shall go for my run."

I catch his hand as he rises. "We can't go out on the beach this morning."

"What?" he asks, frowning down at me. "Why?"

"I need you to come with me into town," I say, trying on a shaky smile.

"So you are telling me I can't go for my run?" he asks me, wary of my breaking of our routine. "How will I keep my girlish figure?" he smirks, turning sideways and smoothing his hands over his chest. "If I get a pot belly, it's all your fault."

"I don't think one day is going to make all the difference. Besides, we have some place else we need to be."

"Where?" Oh, still so wary. I try really hard not to giggle.

"Well..." I prevaricate as I open the front door and slip on my shoes. "...it's a surprise." I smile up at him as he gives me a playfully mistrustful look, a 'what are you up to, _cara_' look. "Come on..." I encourage him, holding out my hand as I pull my keys down off the hook. I bring the tea and hardtack with me to nibble en route, and he follows me out to the truck.

"All right... if you say so..." Oh, such faith he has in me. I drive us into town, down into the little business district, and park in front of Dr. Greene's office, my Ob/Gyn. Once I'd taken the home test, I scheduled an appointment here, just to check in, since she considers me to be 'high risk', because of everything that happened before. I made her swear to me that she wouldn't say anything to Zev about possibilities until they become _probabilities_, because the last thing we need is for him to get neurotic. There are so many things that can go wrong with a perfectly healthy pregnancy that... well, after the day we had the discussion about my probable life-expectancy, I just don't want to push the button again. His stressing out over it would stress me out, too, because I would know there was something wrong with him, even if he tried to hide it, and all of that would just be no good for anyone. He looks up at the building and then turns to me, arching an eyebrow. "Uh... what is this place?"

"This is my doctor's office, and-"

"You are sick?" He peers at me closely, but I smile, trying to reassure him.

"No, it's just-"

"But you're not sick, you're just pregnant." He protests himself almost immediately, and I laugh.

"Exactly. Listen! We're going to go in and talk to her about the baby, and she's got something to show us. You're going to love it." I giggle.

He leers. "We're going to look at your pussy? I do that all the time; we do not need a doctor to help us with that." I giggle some more, shaking my head.

"Er... Well... Sort of. You've never done _this_, I can guarantee it."

"It must be something special, if it's something I haven't done yet." He arches an eyebrow at me, and I grin.

"You have no idea how right you are."

Twenty minutes later, I'm laying on a table as the doctor presses the heart monitor against my stomach, eventually locating the tiny little flutter that is the sound of the baby's heart beating a fast and steady susurration, like the wings of a hummingbird. I grin hugely. Zev, sitting next to me, his fingers twined with mine, stares at my stomach in speechless, slack-jawed awe, looking like he's been pole-axed. I giggle again.

But it's when she runs the ultrasound machine over my belly that I see the goofiest grin I've ever witnessed in my whole damn life. There is nothing like that singular moment of unguarded, simple happiness and pride that I see in his eyes, and on his face, as he lays eyes on our baby for the first time. She shows us the profile, pointing out its little arms and legs; it wiggles, waving its hands - perfect, teeny-tiny little hands - and I have to wipe a tear away, even as we are laughing. The motion of my fingers across my cheek draws Zev's attention, and as his eyes fall on mine, I lose myself enough that I almost don't register what the doctor is saying.

"-just got our 4-d machine this week, and I'm still testing it out, so I'll just give you one for free if you let me keep a copy for the records. The copy would be anonymous, of course, with just technical details, nothing personal – length of pregnancy, date and time, that sort of thing."

Zev's eyes are closed, the back of my hand pressed to his mouth, trapped by our intertwined fingers, and he is undoubtedly listening to the soft flutter of the heartbeat again, so I nod, answering for both of us. "Yes, please. We'd love that." She smiles and exits the room to fetch the required paperwork.

The room is silent, save for the baby's heart, and I reach up, tracing a finger across his cheekbone. I feel so filled with contentment and joy, that I can bring this to him, that we can have this together. "So, I take it you approve," I tease, my voice soft as I look up at him, and his eyes pop open, crinkling with humour at the corners.

"It is beautiful, _amora mia_, so perfect; it is so cute!" He chuckles, kissing the back of my hand again. "Oh, Maker, _cara_!" he whispers fervently, pressing my fingers to his lips before his face goes a little more serious. "But... it does look a little like a legume." This is so hilarious, the way he says it with his accent, that I cannot help but laugh. He snaps his fingers and points. "Ah, I know: that is what I will call it. I shall call it 'legume'. Hello, little legume," he coos, rubbing my stomach proprietorially. It's the only time it's ever tickled and it's been okay. "How are you doing in there, eh? It looks like there's lots of room right now, but soon it will be too small!" he says, and I hear the doctor laughing with me as she re-enters.

Ten minutes later, we are standing outside with a clear picture of our little legume in an envelope. "You should keep this one," I say, pressing it into his hand.

"This one? You mean there will be others?"

I nod. "Yes, once a month; we get to watch it grow." Most people don't have so many, but... She wants to monitor me closely. There'll be a lot of trips to the vampire, too. Phlebotomist. Whatever. "We get to have a look every four weeks, and in January, we can choose to find out whether it will be a boy or a girl." His eyes light up, and I laugh again, wrapping my arms around his neck as I lean in for a kiss. "Do you want to know, or have it be a surprise?" I ask, drawing back.

It occurs to me that I've become a lot more comfortable with public displays, in the last year. You would never have caught me kissing in a parking lot in broad daylight, let alone standing with full frontal contact, hells no. But now? It's only what is natural. I don't even bother to wonder about what's behind me; Zev's facing that direction, so I'm safe. I'm facing where his back is, so he's safe. It just... doesn't matter anymore, who might be watching. Let them.

Heh. I sound like him, a little.

He blinks at me. "They can tell you that?" I nod. "What? No mystery? Nooooo."

I laugh. "Good, then we agree. I want it to be a surprise, too." I open the truck door behind me and slide in. He shuts the door and comes in from the other side.

"I think it's a girl; girls make you sick. Very sick. My mother, I was told she was strong and suffered not at all until the end. Elvish women, they know - yes, so, _cara_, what do you think it is, hmm? Do you not agree?"

I rub my lower lip, thinking about the pregnancy stories I've heard from my family members and shrug. "I don't know. All the women in my family, they all had girls, and they all had morning sickness, so... I guess so, but I don't really have any basis of comparison."

"Mmmn. No cravings for pickles? Pickles mean boys, chocolate means girls." He nods decisively. "Spicy and sweet things always mean girls, for are they not sugar and spice? Sour, salty things - boys. Always. We're salty things, like the sea. Bitter and harsh. I think what with all this sickness - and your need for curries - it _must_ be a girl, but I don't want some magician healer to tell us. I like the game of guessing."

I grin. "Well, we'll find out if you're right in about six months."

He claps his hands once, before rubbing them together, gaze focused inwards, as he grins. "Oh, I can hardly wait!" He sounds almost girlish in his glee, which is sweet and hilarious and almost out of character, but he is utterly smitten with joy; totally understandable. "Our little legume! I want to see ten fingers, ten toes, _little_ nails..." He holds his thumb and forefinger up, just a scant half-inch apart. "Tiny little ears and nose! Oh, have you seen the baby shoes? Jack and I were going past the baby section in the store, and I saw these little booties. So small!"

I giggle. "I know, itty-bitty." My hand automatically falls across my stomach, and I smile at him. What's the word for this? Oh, yes, besotted. Soggy toast? Maybe. It's okay though. It's good. "Do you know what else today is?"

"Mmm... Sexytime?" he asks me, his voice hopeful and knowing at the same time, and I turn bright red, my heartbeat picking up, as usual. I bite my lip and reluctantly shake my head.

"No, I, uh... Well. That's a good plan, but that's not what I was thinking of. No, it's November 11th." I start the truck, rubbing my hands together and holding them out to the slowly warming heater vents. My truck might not be new, but she's reliable. I just have to be patient enough for her to get herself going properly. Soon as the heat is running well, we can go. By then the windows will have unfogged.

He looks at me for a long while, his eyebrows drawn together. "It is my 'birthday'?" he asks slowly, clearly not believing his answer to be correct. We joke about it – he still won't tell me how old he really is, nor if he knows when his birthday is – and has adopted his 'official' age as gospel. "My ID says I am 38," he always says, and that's an end to it. Sometimes I wonder if he actually knows how old he is, for sure, or if he's just adopted the one he was given because it's as good a date as any, or even perhaps because it's 'close enough'.

In any case, he made me swear not to celebrate it, as it seems pompous to him, so I just quietly got myself a new bra and panties, nice blood-red ones with lace and velvet, and then accidentally-on-purpose just 'randomly' wore them on his supposed birthday, underneath one of my looser flannels – the one that comes unbuttoned by itself sometimes, and gaps when I bend forward, giving a straight-on cleavage shot. He gets a good birthday present, I get the satisfaction of giving him one, and he doesn't have to think about birthdays. Everything works out just fine. Except now, when he clearly has not bothered to remember when his 'birthday' _is_, exactly. I sigh in exasperation. With as much of a sponge for information as he is, I'd think he'd remember this, at least.

"Actually, it's not. 'According to your ID', you were 39 on the day before Satinalia, which you should know by now, baby," I say, frowning.

He growls good-naturedly, though still a little nettled. "Yes then, what the hell is it?"

"It's been a year," I prompt.

"Okaaaayyyy..." He draws it out, looking at me blankly, then a sudden light dawns. "AH! That _is_ right. You women are crazy about anniversaries."

"Uh... not exactly. Just... Marking time." I look down at my hands. "If I could only mark one date on the calendar, today would be it, because it is the day you came to me, and changed everything."

One of his hands reaches out, laying atop mine. "Then it is good that you can mark many days on any calendar, _cara_. To me, it is a day of rebirth, for you it is one of change. I changed nothing, but _we_ changed everything. There is... a vast difference _dolcezza_. Even if the Maker had not given us this chance, you would have found a way out. For myself, I bear no illusions as to what my fate would have been, had I not come."

Gods, the idea that he had been on his way to throw himself into the lion's mouth makes me shiver. "We would, neither one of us, have been half so satisfied..."

A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he glances out his window. "Quite true. Nevertheless, _amora_, I prefer to hope that at the least you would have gained some."

I bow my head; he truly and simply does not understand how bleak my future was without him... and how short, most probably. It's like he can't believe that he could ever be that important. I just don't know how I could possibly show him that he is just as much of a lifeline for me as I am for him, but I keep looking for ways.

My jeans are starting to feel too crowded, these days. It's okay when I'm in the shop to just unbutton them and roll the waistband down a bit, but that's not going to fly when we're going over to Jack's house for dinner. I stand in front of the closet, a pair of yoga pants in my hand, looking at them ambivalently. I really hate the idea of wearing sweat-pants out of the house; it makes me feel ghetto, 'cause I've got too much wiggle goin' on in my thighs for my own comfort level, no matter what Zev might say about the matter. Then again... it _is_ only Jack and Sofia...

"Put on a dress," he says, pulling them from my hand and tossing them on the bed. "I will never understand your protest over something so simple."

"Dresses are for special occasions... or costumes?" I venture, and he snorts.

"It is a dress. It covers you, yes? It is simple, and does not crowd the legume, yes? And you also have no troubles about it when it is time to go to an event on the weekend, yes? So what is this problem with dresses any other time? Other women wear them _all_ the time."

I sigh. How to explain all the things that go wrong for me when I'm wearing a dress? With him around, a dress makes me... er... kind of obvious, when he gets to doing the things he does. Not enough fabric to... er... keep me from... er... needing perfume. And... then there's the whole... moisture... issue... I mean, okay, it's not exactly comfortable for my thighs to be rubbing together when he's got me damp enough to soak myself. And then there's the whole forgetting I'm in a dress issue. It works just fine when I'm at an event – those skirts go all the way to my ankle – but any other time, man, especially if the skirt is at or above my knee? Look, I never claimed to be a 'lady'.

His face goes opaque on me as he pulls out the dark blue crushed velvet one I threw on the night he showed up and casually hands it over to me, while pulling a clean shirt off a hanger for himself. I haven't worn it since then – he and Sofia are right about that; I'm always in jeans – so I wonder if he remembers it, or it's simply coincidence. Either one is possible, but if I mention it, then it will be because he thought of it. I just put it on without comment, pulling a silver chain belt out of my dresser drawer. I tug on my Fryes and twist my hair up into a quick knot, stuffing a couple of chopsticks in it.

Behind me, Zev growls; before I can turn to find out what he's about, he's pulled the sticks out again and is running his fingers through my hair. I clutch the dresser, my eyes closing as I lose a breath. "Tch," he mutters, "A whole different world, and you _still_ have fewer feminine wiles than I do. All this hair, and all you can think to do with it is either brush it or nail it to your head with sticks." I would laugh, but he's tugging on my hair, and I just don't quite have enough breath for it. Deft, practised fingers weave through my tresses, looping it this way and that, before using a single stick to hold part of it in place, the other clearly in his mouth as he mumbles around it. "Hair like this needs to be showcased, not wasted. Otherwise, why bother having it at all?"

Oh, wait, that's a question. I'm supposed to be talking now. I mumble incoherently, and then finally manage to say something that mostly sounds like, "It's fun when you pull it?"

He grunts, leaning in and breathing over my neck, even as he gives a single, purposeful tug. "Your hair could be of similar length to mine, and it would still be easy enough to give the same effect for you, yes?"

I'm not sure, but I think he might be using logic on me. It's... a bit hard to think when he gives yet _another_ pull; this time it is right on the back of my head, right in that one _spot_. All I can do is clench my hands against the wood as this action tears a sudden moan from me. My cruel man only chuckles at my plight. "Uhhh...? Learn to braid... Right; got it..." I gasp. Damn. When did I start talking like Alistair? I feel my eyes roll up as he pulls again, his fingers closing and wrapping around the long strands. I babble incoherently, "Don't really have to go to dinner...?" I'm not sure if I'm asking, begging, or trying to escape.

Zev gives a little hum, his breath washing across my ear and making me lose my train of thought again. "Of the many things I have been introduced to in your world, _amora_, there is one that I find rather fascinating."

"Hnn...?"

"Something called 'fashionably late'." His teeth sink into the side of my neck and my hairsticks clatter to the floor as his hands slide up the outsides of my thighs, dragging my skirt up at the same time. I moan as he quickly kneels behind me so he can yank my panties down forcefully, before sliding his hands back up the inside of my legs, his breath hot on my moist thighs. "I suppose it would be best to be rather fashionable, yes?" he murmurs right before he pulls my lips apart so he can drive his tongue into my sopping entrance. Wet noises from between my trembling thighs and my own whimpers are all I can hear as I hang my head, bracing myself against the dresser. This is both beautiful and unbearable; I've been feeling like a cat in heat for weeks, and while I've always been pretty easily aroused – well, for him, anyway – lately it's been driving me _mad_.

I find myself quietly chanting his name, whimpering under my breath as I lean into him. My knees weaken and my nails scrape against the wood, and I am maintaining my feet by dint of will alone. My boots slide across the carpet as he pulls my weight more firmly against his face, spreading my thighs with his shoulders, supporting me in such a way that all I can feel is his tongue moving in and out and over me.

I arch, my hips tilting backward toward him, unable to stop my writhing as he brings me closer and closer to that trembling edge with every long stroke of his tongue. I whimper, all the small hairs on my legs standing up as a wave of goose-flesh washes over my skin, kindling a rising tide within me, and that little whimper turns into a keen as the wave begins to crest. There are sparks in my hair and fire in my fingertips, a blaze set at the base of my spine and a heavy glow in my breasts, but it is his hand flexing against my thigh and the muffled, hungry little growl – oh, the sound of his desire for me – that have me completely undone. I buck helplessly, sobbing as I feel his tongue pushing back against my contracting muscles. "Zev, Zev please," I whimper, begging him. I need him; I need him so badly, I can taste it. Lately, it seems like it's all I can think about.

At last, he relents, and I find out what he's been up to with his other hand when he ducks out from under me; my knees buckle, but he's got me by the thighs, controlling my descent, and there are no pants in the way as I land in his lap, sliding onto him, all in one smooth motion. My hands claw against the wood as my arms stretch out over my head, and I moan loudly as he fills me so perfectly, so completely, oh gods, so _exactly right_. He hisses something in Italian, I can't even really hear him over my own heavy breathing and the sound of my nails scrabbling against the side of the dresser, oh, but the sound of his voice is enough to drive me onward, hot and starving as I am, and I rock back against him, arching my back. He mutters something else that almost sounds like a curse, and spreads his knees suddenly, pitching my hips forward and burying him much more deeply within me. I cry out, my hands clutching at the top of the dresser and one of the drawer-handles, and hang on desperately as he sets a very fast and hard pace; though I know he's holding back, trying to be gentle with me, it's so perfect, so right.

"Zev," I gasp, feeling him struggling with himself. "Oh gods, don't stop, don't stop." For this, I am rewarded with another hungry growl, his teeth in my shoulder, and oh, his arms around me, holding me so tightly to him. My gravity changes, he is curling over my back; I don't even know where we are anymore. My world is a fire of his hands and breath, the strength of his arms and the hardness of his thighs, the flex of his stomach against my ass and the thickness of his cock within me. Nothing else exists; I float in a perfect haze of rhythms in counterpoint: his breath and mine, my heartbeat roaring in my ears, and the rocking of our hips. I orgasm so many times I shatter, flying senseless on a wave of pure ecstasy, only coming down when he sits back, gathering me to his chest, and my head falls back against his shoulder. I press my mouth to his sweaty neck, tasting salt on my lips, and smile drunkenly.

"Mmm... _Ti amo_," I mumble, and he chuckles.

"_Ti amo_, Lily _mia_," he murmurs, his hand slowly sliding up my neck to cup my jaw in a soft caress, and dimly, distractedly, the thought that I do not give a damn that he's technically got me by the throat floats through my mind. He tilts my face upward to kiss me softly, thoroughly, and I feel complete, at peace. I never want to move. Unfortunately, kneeling on the carpet is not exactly comfortable – a fact I am becoming rapidly aware of, now that I'm returning to my senses. "And now we must get off the floor and go to dinner, yes?" I groan, and he pushes me upward as I struggle to my feet, steadying me.

"Uff... I need a shower."

He chuckles. "Oh? And why is that?"

I arch an eyebrow at him. "I really don't think Jack and Sofia need to... _smell_ us," I say, heading into the bathroom.

He snorts. "I doubt they will notice anything, over their own scents."

Now, while I know Sofia very well – and her general lustiness (Like I said, having her _and_ Zev in my life is like a brother and sister duo of various craziness) – I can't really see Jack as being... Well. Like me and Zev. Yet, my darling husband is stretching and dressing fully once more, casual as can be, and he sounds so _sure_, almost like he _knows_ something. Then again, he _always_ knows something. I confine myself to a quick clean-up, to remove as much of the evidence of my not-so-great control as possible, and follow him out the door. Catching sight of the clock on my way out of the house, I see that we're about half an hour late, now.

I'm not one to care about what's 'fashionable', but I guess I'm okay with this rule. It's a good rule. I watch his shoulders flex as Zevran pries my door open before slinking over to his side of the truck, and debate yanking him back to the house. Again. Or, hell, we have yet to defile the truck, and the bench seat is nice and wide. As if he can read my mind, beside me, Zev chuckles darkly.

Hmm... I could get to like this rule.


	19. Family Ties

One thing I have come to love about going places with Zev is that, if he's next to me, he's touching me. It's not like he hovers, and it's not an obviously possessive thing... It's more like... Touch is a comfort, and not just for him, but for me, as well. I've mostly stopped worrying that he will be snatched from me without warning, but I sometimes still need to feel his heat next to me, if not have his arm around me, just to prove to myself that he's real. I find myself sticking close to his side as the bitter November wind blows up my skirt, making me shiver. He puts his arm around my waist as we ascend the stairs to Jack's place, side-by-side, and I lean my head against his shoulder, briefly.

I shiver again, huddling against his chest as he rings the bell. A few moments later, Sofia opens the door, looking slightly dishevelled, which makes me feel a lot better about being late. Zev smirks, Sofia blushes, and I giggle. "Dinner's almost done," she says, and I stifle a snort. We're almost an hour late, and dinner's not quite done. Haha, at least we weren't the only ones, I guess.

Zev throws me a look after we get inside, as if to say 'I told you so'. He is _far_ too diplomatic to actually say something like that, but that doesn't mean he isn't _thinking_ it. I bump my shoulder into his for being so smug, thinking he kinda deserves it. What results is a few moments of nudging back and forth, both of us grinning and me finally giggling, and I feel like we're just a couple of teenagers for that brief time.

"Oh, get a room!" Sofia crinkles her nose at us, sailing in with a tray that she plunks unceremoniously on her coffee table.

"Heh... This _is_ a room." I smirk, but I'm blushing.

Jack slips in from the back of the apartment. "I think it's been defiled recently enough that it doesn't need another go 'round. It might revolt and up and leave. And I like my living room to stay right where it is," he adds, flopping on the frequently-repaired leather couch. I haven't been up here since Sofia moved in a few months ago, and it's nice to see how the place has changed. The bachelor-pad now has curtains, a coffee table, art on the walls, an oriental rug on the floor, and it looks like Sofia's Fiestaware has replaced Jack's mis-matched Goodwill finds.

Zev takes my coat and hangs it on the row of hooks to one side of Jack's door, and we sit together on the little love-seat to one side of the coffee table. I pick up a cup as Sofia sets down a pitcher, and pour drinks for everyone while Sofia gathers plates and forks, passing them around, before I hold a cup of my own.

I bury my face in the steam, breathing in the rich scent of spiced apple cider. "Mmmm... Hot cider. Something I truly love about the holidays: there's always cider and eggnog."

"Mmm, with rum," Jack adds, and I giggle.

"Yeah, but that's next year," I remind him. It seems like my hand is always over my stomach. He grins.

"Hey, that's right!" Sofia chimes in. "How did the appointment go?"

I giggle, my eyes sliding toward Zev. He almost glows as he digs in his back pocket, so he can pull out the picture, "We have a perfect little legume."

Jack's look says it all. "Legume?"

"A bean - kidney bean, possibly," Zev says, as though that explains _everything_. His fingertip traces the shape of our baby. "See? Very legume-shaped."

Sofia coos, leaning down over the arm of the loveseat. "It's so teeny-tiny! You two do good work!"

I turn crimson, ducking my head, waiting for the customary fall of hair to hide me, and then remember that Zev's taken that from me with the looped braids that hang at the back of my head. I sigh, giving it up for lost, and roll my eyes; I can't seem to shake my grin. "Okay, yes, if legumes were the size of strawberries, and had heartbeats that clock 157."

"But, _amora_, I thought we agreed it was legume-like." The soulful look he turns on me is positively adorable, and the tips of his ears even droop a little. That's interesting - I didn't know he could fake that... there I go, underestimating him again.

I groan and laugh at the same time. I hate it when he gives me that big-eyed, starving kitten look. Damn, I'm a sucker. "Aww, baby, don't look at me like that. That's some devious tactics, that is - I'm lucky you don't turn that look on me more often."

He laughs. "Ahhh... But how can I resist, now that I know the tool is in my arsenal, hm?" He bites his lip, making it just that much worse, and I laugh, turning red and covering my face with both hands, before I hold them up in surrender.

"Yes, yes, I agree, it _does_ look like a bean..." _Okay, but if I'm just a little cheeky, he might bite me for it later_, I think, looking at him, and this brings a little rush of earlier, how he bit my neck before he dropped the hairsticks, and suddenly that's very good incentive to say something a little flip. "...Except that beans don't wiggle their little arms. Since they don't have 'em."

He frowns. "They do not have to wiggle. They merely have to look legume-y. And our legume is very legume-y. More like a kidney bean that is the size of a fava."

He says this so seriously I giggle. I can't help it. I lean over, resting against his shoulder and smile up at him, probably looking stupidly besotted, but I really don't give a damn at this point. If anyone knows how crazy I am about Zev, it's Jack and Sofia; it's the three of them, anyway, who arranged the handfasting in the first place.

"Oh, man, I see another trip to the baby store in my future." Jack bemoans his fate, but the way his cheeks pinch at the corners lets me know that he's only faking it.

"Ah, and it will be far more fruitful than our last shopping trip, yes?" Zev's question is pointed.

Jack has the good grace to flush, and reaches out, catching Sofia's hand, and pulling her to sit beside him. "I think it worked out well."

Confused, I look at them again, and realize that they're not just slightly dishevelled, but almost beaming. Could it be that our little family will have more babies? Oh, if so then that means my and Zev's little legume will have a playmate. But then again, I realize that Sofia has some of Jack's spiked eggnog in her hand.

"Okay guys, I'm in the dark here," I finally admit. "It's obvious you're not pregnant, so what gives? I'm the only one who doesn't know what's going on."

Zev waves a hand at them. "_Cara,_ it seems as though Jack has had a bout of good sense and finally asked Sofia to keep him smart for as long as she can put up with him - which would be longer than I could."

My gaze swings to them incredulously, and I squeak happily. "You're getting married?"

Sofia blushes, something she doesn't tend to do, but this is the second time in less than an hour. "I know. Me? Married? Loki's got a wicked sense of humor."

Jack snorts. "More like 'twisted', if you ask me."

I laugh. "Oh his family must be _so happy_," I say, knowingly. Jack might have been a straight-edge right up to Sofia, but he was always open-minded about everyone else's rights. Not so, his family. The reason that Jack and I never went anywhere as a potential relationship in high school was because his mother found out I'm pagan and hit the roof, screeching at me that no 'whore of Satan' was going to corrupt her son. It gives me just a little pang of schadenfreude that she's gonna have to deal with my Sofia instead.

"Delighted," Jack agrees cheerfully. "But they can suck eggs." I can see it in the way his hand flexes against her shoulder, in just the tiniest little tightening around his eyes, that his mama is gonna rue the day if she ever opens her mouth like that about Sofia.

"Oh I don't know, I think they'll loosen up eventually," Sofia says breezily. I wonder if she's even met the cow yet. "Hey, if I got _you_ to take that stick out of your ass and use it for something else, I'm sure my family can do the same for yours." Yeah, then again, the merry band of gypsies that Sofia comes from may be the only people who could stand a chance against those Puritans. Sofia snickers, waving a hand and it is then that I notice the flash on her finger.

"Oh oh, let me see! You can't go and get engaged and not show off the ring!" Leaning over the coffee table, I snag the flying hand so I can peer at the ring on her finger. It's either white gold or platinum, a simple band with two triquetra framing a deep purple stone. Tanzanite, I think; there's too much blue in it for it to be amethyst. "It definitely suits you."

With how traditional Jack is, I had expected some gold and diamond monstrosity. Zev leans back nonchalantly beside me, not seeming surprised in the slightest, and I suspect that Jack's sudden 'good taste' may have been heavily influenced. Sofia would have taken anything that Jack picked and never complained once - she loves that straight-edge man far too much to ever turn something down - but she would not have been touched. The fact that this ring suits her, completely, would mean far more to her than something pricey and traditional. It means he put a lot of thought into it, even if Zev probably 'helped' out a lot.

Happy for her, for them both really, I squeeze her hand. "It _really_ suits you, and it's so sparkly!"

"Well it was that, or settling on the forty-thousand-dollar diamond." Jack coughs in embarrassment as I stare at him, shocked into incredulous silence. "Thankfully I got some good advice, or I think I would've been in debt for a long time."

Zev smirks knowingly. "Good advice is so rarely listened to. I am pleased that you found some kind benefactor to straighten you out, my friend."

Sofia makes a dismissive sound. "Pfft. Quit being modest. I say I owe you two pans of brownies for keeping us from insolvency, and for saving my eyes from going blind having to look at a rock that big. Could wear it around my neck, probably, or maybe use it as a knuckle duster."

"Those are illegal, cupcake," Jack quips, playing at being a stuffed shirt.

"Heh, not when you buy them from the jewellery store, apparently..." I snort. "It just has to be diamond-encrusted. What stone is this? Tanzanite?"

"Iolite." Sofia beams.

"Wow, third eye. That's a good one," I tell her, seriously impressed. I wonder if Jack had any idea of the stone's meaning when he picked it out, or if he just got it because it's a pretty purple.

Jack's ears go pink. "I did... a little research. I thought it would match her hair more often than not, too. You don't have to hear her railing about me wearing red, so... yes. Purple, I figured, would be best, or teal, but this one was the prettiest."

"Oh, you could have gotten me a lump of glassy coal and I would have worn it, you goof." Sofia leans back, snuggling happily into Jack's shoulder.

She's very big on public displays, just like Zev. I _knew_ they were brain-twins. Double the trouble, twice the fun, and an extra bucket of insanity when their forces combine. That's my family, they're not blood, but better. Blood may be thicker than water, but that just means it doesn't travel as far except for obligations. We have all _chosen_ each other, and that makes them so much more important to me. I truly am blessed.

"So, Zev," Jack says, "I was talking to some of the guys, and one of them, his brother is an electrician. It'd be pretty simple to get him over to your place to do the wiring on the new room. I've got a few days off coming up; we could get it wired and sheet rocked, maybe get the ceiling in."

"Ah, excellent," he says, and I grin.

"So, I get to go pick out light fixtures and stuff now, hm?"

"_Sì, sì_, and your wallpapers and carpets as well, _cara_," he says, chuckling. "It sounds as though we shall have it finished quite soon, yes?"

Sofia feeds us the best curry I've ever eaten, and Zev keeps doing these things, like sitting next to me with his thigh pressing against mine, and touching my hair, or putting his arm around my waist. At first it is innocent, as much as anything ever is with him, but then I see the moment when he realizes that I have to cross my legs rather tightly, and after that he's merciless. Little, subtle things that I try really hard to pretend aren't happening, even as I can feel my nipples pucker and my panties dampen. We finally bid them goodnight close to nine. I can't stand to stay any longer than that.

We're just pulling into the driveway when my cellphone goes off, and I answer it without checking the screen as I set the parking brake. "Hello?"

"Hey sissy!"

"_Erin!_" I squeak, and she giggles. "Where are you? Last I heard, you were somewhere in Germany."

"Yeah, I signed on with a little airline there for a while, but I got homesick. It really didn't bug me until Sofia called about the handfasting and I couldn't get there for it. I transferred back to Vegas last month. So guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm coming home for Thanksgiving." I grab on to the edge of the seat, the phone pressed tightly to my ear. I haven't seen my sister in years.

"You are? Oh my gods! That's fantastic! When will you be coming in?"

"I thought maybe next week. I was thinkin' about staying with Auntie Renee, but I'd rather be down at the beach."

I slide my eyes over to Zev, grinning, and he is watching me closely, amused and interested. No doubt he can hear both sides of the conversation. "Well... You know I've got the space, but I only have the truck. You'd be stuck here a lot. Plus the nearest civilisation, if you can call it that, is Aberdeen, really."

"Eh, that's okay. I need time to decompress, and I really don't want to deal with Chris." Chris is our aunt's husband. He's... saying he's a slimeball would be kind. After we found out what he did to our cousin, I just... I don't understand why they're still married. I mean, yeah, she was a kid at the time, and none of it came out until we were all adults and it was far too late for anything to be done about it, but still. I shudder.

"Yeah, no way. You come here," I tell her, firmly.

"Good, 'cause I was going to anyway. I have to meet this husband of yours. _No one_ in the family knows who he is. Like, I don't even know his _name_. Like, you didn't even introduce him to _mom_."

I tense, my shoulders curling forward a bit, and swallow. "I know. I..." I glance over at him, and he has gone quite still. I feel put on the spot, caught between them. "It's kinda... complicated. You know how they are. I don't want to hear it from them, you know?"

There is a pause. "Uh... okaaayyy... That's not very reassuring."

"Actually... It should be. Look, when you meet him, you'll understand. Didn't Sofia tell you anything?"

"No! And I would think that would be your job, as the older sister, you know, to call me and say something like, 'Hey, I've been dating this guy for a while and I think I might be in love with him,' or some shit, you know?"

I feel my eyes widen, and I try to take a breath, but Erin just rushes on, like always, correcting herself. "Well, actually, she did say that I shouldn't worry about you. And she told me what happened to that crazy son-of-a-bitch that used to put his hands on you. Is it true? Did you really kill him?"

I sigh. "No."

"Good, 'cause- Wait, what? He's not dead?"

"Oh no, he's quite dead. It wasn't me, though. But I didn't tell you that, obviously."  
Erin's end of the line goes quiet for a moment, and I hear a dog barking in the background.

"Shit!" There is a muffled thud, a lot of cursing, and then my sister comes back on the phone. "Look, the dog just got loose, and I have to go. I'll be up there soon. You are _going_ to tell me the story, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Okay, good, because you know I'll just make you, if you say no. I'll pull your hair." I laugh. "Gotta go!" There is a beep, and the call ends. I stare at the little screen that shows the length of our call for a moment, then program the number into the phone, under 'Erri'.

There is a soft cough from beside me, and I see Zev looking vaguely uncomfortable, "Ah, _cara_, I've a question, if I may."

I tense, having a flash of déjà vu, knowing well that such a statement is a precursor to something heavy. "Anything."

"Ah, well, I know some of your family is alive, as you have said so," the seat creaks as he shifts around to face me, "and that is all well and good. I have never thought of the fact that you have not introduced me to them. As I've had no real family to speak of until you, I never wondered much about what... um... _normal_ people do when they enter into such... arrangements as ours." I can see the question and I see him struggling to voice it, building up to it as is his usual way, except on the hair-raising occasions when he just throws a question down like a ton of bricks. "But this... sister of yours, this... Erin. She seems to think that I should have met your relatives by now. Is... is there something... wrong with me, that you would not wish to have me meet with them? I mean, if so, I understand," he says in a rush. He is not looking at me, does not see my horrified expression at the very thought that he would believe I could feel that way. "I mean how would we greet each other? And answer questions as to what my family was like and such? 'Oh hello, I am Zevran, and my mother was a whore..."

I'm gonna cry. "Stop," I try to interrupt him, my voice quiet, but he keeps going.

"...I was born in a brothel, she died giving birth to me, I was sold into slavery at the age of seven, and by the way - I am an assassin, who was originally contracted to kill your daughter. May I have some tea?' I do not think that would go over so well."

"Zev, please..." I bite my lip, bowing my head, and feel like shit. "It's not you; I thought surely you would know that by now. It's them, obviously."

I watch him think about that. "I can handle judgmental people just fine. Remember, I coped with Wynne and Morrigan."

"Yes. I know you can. You would. You would be fine. They might even be nice to you. It is after, when they are sitting around, when there is no one quite close enough to hear the nasty things they will whisper to me, in the guise of familial loyalty and concern. They make Wynne look like a sweet little grandma, and Morrigan... like... like a cookie-selling Girl Scout spouting rainbows out her ass." My mouth twists. "Their disdain, it cuts, and they will have it, no matter if you were one of the gods incarnate. What's more, I will have to endure hours of diatribe on Tommy, as well, a recounting of every sin, and they will try to regale you with _such tales_ of my stupidity in being in his orbit for so long. The things they say... They can make me feel so small and worthless, so easily."

His scowl is massive and deep. "I will not put up with that. Let them try it. I tolerate no such things to ever be said about you."

I shake my head. "And what will you do? Tell them to be nice? Beat them up? Anything you say or do only adds fuel to the fire. Everything is twistable."

"It is quite simple, then; if they speak such things, then I shall tell them that they are not appropriate, that they are speaking of my wife, and that if they wish to be part of the family then they shall be civil or not be family at all," he replies reasonably, shaking his head. "I will not yell, I will not make a scene. I will ensure that I have at the least held out the olive branch. It is their choice whether they wish to be adults or not. However, hiding away does not do anything other than add to their 'list of misdeeds made by Lily and her husband'."

I shake my head, curling in on myself - I know I am, but I can't help it. They're like a load of bricks on my back. "They're like vultures. Nothing stops them. I... Everything else in my life has been tainted by their derision. I just... wanted something that _wasn't_." And now I do cry, stupid hormones, even as I berate myself for it. I cover my face with both hands, trying to choke it back. "Think about it. In all the time that you've been here, none of them have called me, not once. Why... why should I put us out there for that kind of... reception... when we're happy enough as we are? Erin's a lot closer to mom than I am... Mom's the reason I was homeless in the first place."

He is across the seat with his arms around me, in the space of a heartbeat. "I did not know, please, _amora_ shh, I take it back then. I would defend you until my last breath, and nothing they could ever do or say would taint how I feel for you. They are fools and are unworthy of having you share their blood. I only thought that perhaps you were missing something because of me."

I sob into his shoulder, clinging to him tightly. "Zev... No... Gods, please... Why do you do this to yourself? Everything, everything I have, is because of you. If I missed anything, it was before you came; the only lack I ever had was of your presence."

"Shh, remember _mia regina_, I am inexperienced in this... way of life." Stroking my head with one hand, he lays his cheek against my temple. "I have little to draw upon other than books, and second-hand knowledge. There are nuances I will never fully comprehend, as until Rinna and Taliesen, I had no idea what family was, in any sense of the word, and then you happened, and then _this_ happened. I am surrounded by 'family' now. How could I know anything else? Do not cry so, Lily _mia_, there is no reason to."

I shake my head again. "It's not about any of them, or where we are. It is about _us_. Every time you question _us_, I feel sick. In this world, or any other, my words are the same. 'Without reservation', you said. I say it too! Please..." Another round of sobbing cuts me off, and I cling more tightly still. Damn my pregnant brain.

"No, no, auck, I have mucked things," he grumbles, squeezing me. "It is not my value to you, nor the value of 'us' that is hard for me to not question, but the value of myself, I suppose. But please, no more tears, not about this. If they are so horrible, we will never see them. And know I do not, cannot, ever think to question 'us'. Any thought of such a thing would break me."

It takes me a minute to calm down again, but I finally do, and wipe both my face and his neck with my sleeve, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. I can't bear to pull away, though, and I lay my head back down on his shoulder. "Do you have any idea how much I love you? Everything about you? You are my world."

"Love for another is but the reflection of the love they have for you," he murmurs. "Or this is what a playwright in Antiva was known to say." A small laugh makes his breath ruffle my hair. "Funny thing about her was that she tended to have her lovers all killed, because she did not love them, which must surely mean they did not love her... ah, the insanity of poets, sages and artists. It is never dull."

"Hmh. Good thing I'm an artist then; at least you'll always be entertained." I giggle quietly. "Can we go to bed now?"

"My dear, you could be a jar of olives, and life would not be dull," he snorts. He scoots forward, opening my door as he leans around me.

"You just say that 'cause you like to eat me." I let him carry us forward, holding tightly to his shoulders as he slithers out of the truck with me.

Zev's laugh is a full one, and he nips a quick kiss. "Oh-ho, you don't say? What _ever_ could have given you such a splendidly naughty idea?"

I cannot help another giggle, pressing my lips to his neck and breathing in the comforting scent of him. "Uh... learned from a master."

His steps barely make any noise on the stairs. "Oh, 'master', is it? I like that one. Say on..."


	20. Family Reunion

Our little nursery is so adorable. I did a silver and blue clouds, moon, and stars theme, and got Jack to paint the ceiling midnight blue, so I could dot on some glow-in-the-dark paint for constellations. I got a star-map for the summer sky, since our baby is due at the beginning of June, used a pin to poke holes where the stars go, and then put it over a lamp so it would cast the constellations upward for painting. The carpet is a soft, light blue, and the walls have clouds around the bottom, and fade from light blue to dark, blending in with the ceiling. I found a lamp that has an image of the moon printed on it for the overhead light, and we're looking into getting furniture and things next. Maybe in January. Jack and Zev finally knocked out the wall at the corner of the hallway, so it's all open, and the house is a lot warmer now that the back of the fireplace isn't closed off into just my sewing room. I'm pleased with how my home, and my family, are growing.

Two days before Thanksgiving, at about five o'clock in the morning, really, just as I'm leaning over the toilet again, I hear gravel crunching outside, and Zev calls from the front room, "Ah... _Cara_, there is a car... A strange girl is getting out of it. Your sister, no doubt, yes?"

I moan and retch again. Of course. She shows up right when I'm barfing. By the time I've got my face washed and gathered myself together enough to get my ass into the front room, I see Erin, through the window, hauling a giant suitcase out of the back of the car. My sister is about the same height as me, but that's where the resemblance ends. I favour the Swedish side of the family, while she got all the French. Her hair is a dark blonde, and curly; she likes to wear it short, and it always reminds me of a 40's glamour girl. She also got all the boobs in the family - enough for three women, poor thing - and none of the hips. Her pants are constantly falling down. I grin as I watch her - once again - do the 'Erin dance', shimmying as she pulls her pants back up one-handed.

Zev opens the door, pressing a cup of ginger tea into my hand as he heads outside to help her. "Here, allow me to lend you a hand," he says, reaching out to take the suitcase from her.

She looks up, and the appreciative smile freezes in place on her face, going a little strange. She steps back a bit, staring up at him as the expression on her face flickers to confused, and then kind of freaked out. "Uh. Hi?"

"Auck, please, introductions shall keep until we are inside," he says, giving her one of his winning smiles no doubt, prying her hand from the suitcase's handle without seeming to, and taking her elbow with his other, guiding her up the steps. "Lily is inside, probably just regaining her bearings. The mornings of late have been somewhat rough."

Erin moves past him into the house, but turns as she does so, unable to take her eyes off him. She is looking at him like he's... impossible. Oh... crap. I bet she's played the game too. It would be right up her alley, though she would, of course, have gone straight for Alistair over my Zev. A knight in shining armour with spiky hair; exactly her type. I set my mug aside, half empty now - chugging the first half seems to help more than dainty sips, otherwise it doesn't get there fast enough to do any good - so that I can brace myself for the bear-hug that follows as Erin practically throws herself at me, squealing "Sissy!" at the top of her lungs.

I take a step back, steadying myself, and gasp, "Not the belly! Squash! Squash!" and she lets go rather quickly, staring at me in shock.

"What? That too?" I giggle self-consciously as her gaze drops to my stomach, and she immediately puts her hands out, feeling for the curve there. She grins, and then cackles with barely-restrained glee. "Ohhhh... I'm gonna fill you full of sugar and caffeine, one day, little one. Oh yes; spread the madness!"

She hugs me again, squishing my shoulders this time, instead, and I cling to her, grateful that she's here. It's really been far too long. She's the only member of my family I'm still in touch with on purpose. At last she steps back, and looks Zev up and down again. "So."

"Uh... Yeah, uh... Erin... This is... This is Zev."

"Zevran, Zevran Moreno," he introduces himself, holding out his hand to her with a smile, and nary a trip over his false last name. "Zev to my friends," he adds, his smile widening. "And to my family."

Erin goes a little pale, taking his hand hesitantly. "You- You-" She looks at me, shock written clear across her face. "What- How- Are you serious?"

I clear my throat. "Uh... About what?"

She stares at me. "Really? 'Moreno'? That's... that's really... um his- your-" She turns to look at him, saying with some conviction, "That's not really your name."

"It is what my license says," he avers, shrugging and side-stepping nimbly. "Would you like to see it? I also have some other papers... Is there something... amiss?"

She snorts. "Damn straight there is! You- you..." She blinks, then shakes her head. "Okay, where's Alistair?"

My Zev flicks a very brief glance at me. "In Antiva, I would assume, heading the Wardens there. That was the last I heard; I was on my way back home, but know nothing more than that, as I never arrived."

Erin stares at him in silence for a very long moment, then turns to look at me, very, very slowly, and I can see the hair practically standing up on her head. "What."

I reach out, grabbing Zev's hand and squeezing it. "I trusted Riordan," is all I say, softly.

Her head whips back to look at him; she takes in both of us, standing together, and then I see her notice his ears. She gives me a hard look. "Lemme see it then."

I shift, confused, and look between my sister and my husband. "The earring, _moglie mia_, is what I assume she means; unless she wishes to see my other gear?"

Silently, I tuck my hair behind my ear, and she about jumps out of her skin. She knows I haven't had my ears pierced since I was a teenager, and there's clearly just the one. I step closer into the circle of Zev's arm. "It's... a long story. I try not to think about it too hard, actually."

"Holy shit. I... you're shitting me right? This is a joke."

"No shitting here." Zev shrugs. "Other than in designated areas. Shale isn't here and no one ever paid me enough to risk that." He heaves a sigh, waving a hand at the sewing room. "However, if you wish to see more, there are other items in there, excluding my belt, as I am wearing it."

Erin looks at me, looks at him, then turns and heads straight for the sewing room. She goes around the end of the wall and then just stands there. I can tell by the direction of her gaze that she sees it: the Felon's Coat is a pretty unique item; there really isn't any mistaking it. She leans heavily against the wall, and doesn't move or say anything for a long time. I pick up my tea, not wanting to leave Zev's side, and rest my head against his shoulder as I wait for her to do something else.

I can feel the tension running through him; I hate it when someone brings up what happened to bring him here. I should've known Erin would have played the game. I run my hand up and down his back, my fingers stroking along the hard lines of muscle where he is holding himself far too still for my liking. "_Hamin, emma sa'lath_," (1) I murmur, nuzzling my mouth at the side of his neck, my voice pitched for him alone. I use the Elvish anyway; it's become almost second nature, giving us a private language that's quite useful in public situations.

None of the tension leaves him, and I can feel Zev resisting the urge to stand in front of me, which is a habit he's always had when agitated. There isn't any danger, and it's been a long time since there was, but it's something he's never stopped doing. Whenever there's a hint of negativity in the air, he always tries to stand before me - either to face me or act as a shield and buffer. Truly, I love this about him, but sometimes it hurts me, because he won't let me help him chill out when he gets like that. I just have to wait it out. Erin will come around eventually.

I clear my throat. "Erin, have you had breakfast?" The change in subject catches her off-guard, and she turns to me again, still looking dazed and lost.

"This is real, right? I mean, I did just drive down here from SeaTac, and I'm not still asleep on the plane, right?"

I shake my head. "Yeah. I wasn't exactly sure what was going on the first few days, either. Just... Let's have something to eat, okay?"

Zev does his protective thing, going with the change. "_Amora_, what do you think you could eat this morning? Erin, I plan on making myself an omelet, would you care to have one?"

At this, she perks. "You can cook?"

"I have some skills in that department, yes," he says, waving it off as though his abilities in the kitchen are no big deal. I've never seen him use a recipe for anything more than once. He tends to memorize the methods and combinations for whatever cuisine he's making and never needs a reminder. Zev just goes into the kitchen, decides on a theme, and goes with it.

"Then, yes! Lily's omelets are like rubber."

"Psh. That's 'cause I can't eat 'em, nerr," I say, rolling my eyes. Looking up at Zev, I say, "I think I'm just gonna stick with toast. Everything's all... sloshy." I scowl, pressing a hand to my stomach.

"Mm, I should make some ginger and almond biscotti today then," he says. He mutters to himself as he goes to putter around the kitchen. "Though we are almost out of oranges, and they would do well with some orange peel, hmmh... now where is that grocery list...?"

Mouth watering at the prospect of fresh biscotti, I grin. "On top of the fridge," I supply. I sit down in 'his' chair and throw another log on the fire. "Siddown, sissy," I tell her, pointing to the overstuffed chair on the other side of the hearth, the one that used to be Papa's. We are quiet a moment as I push the kettle over the fire and open the tea-tin, and Erin just stares at me. Finally, she leans forward.

"What the fuck?" she whispers, and I just shake my head.

"Leave it. Just... I don't like to talk about it, okay? Another time. For now, we should decide what we intend to do for Thanksgiving dinner, because I really don't feel like making a turkey," I tell her, steering the conversation firmly into here-and-now territory.

Zev comes in carrying a little plate with a piece of toast on it, and looks at me as I take it from his hand. "Actually, I have been speaking with Sofia about this holiday you have, and we agreed that it would be best if you did not have to cook such a large meal on your own. Your sister is here, and so we shall do it. She tells me that squash is a very important feature to this meal, so... I have been considering this cake that you like, the cheesecake, yes? I will make one with squash in it. Pumpkin, I believe." I giggle like a schoolgirl.

"Mmmm... pumpkin cheesecake. Raptures! Careful, keep talking like that and I may just have to marry you."

He smirks. "I do believe that that particular ship has sailed." Squatting beside the chair for a moment, he lays his hand over mine. "She also says that fowl is important as well. So, no 'roast beast' as you call it. I am inexperienced with turkey, so I shall use what I do know that is available. I was thinking about duck, and if I remember correctly there is the butcher in town who might have pheasant and some quail. Will this do?"

I have to restrain myself from clapping my hands in glee like a little girl. I confine myself to covering my mouth with my fingers and looking at him wide-eyed. "Oh my gods. I've never eaten it; I have no idea. I've only had duck. But, well, you have yet to make anything I thought was gross, so I have faith that whatever it is you're planning, it'll be awesome."

He dips his head quickly to kiss my fingers before rising, trailing his thumb over my knuckles. "Ah, and some other things as well - stuffing, and squash soup... I would also like to try my hand at some cranberry sauce."

At this, Erin holds up a hand. "I'll do the cranberry sauce, then. We have our own recipe; I'll show you how to do it. I'm gonna make lefsa, too." Ah, and just like that, I know she's accepted him. She never offers to share a kitchen unless she has decided that whoever it is, they're okay. He nods, and looks at me once more before heading back to the kitchen. Holidays at Grandma's house, before we lost her, there were always at least three women in the kitchen cooking at any given time. We had to learn how to move and work around each other, a whole non-verbal language. For her to say that she will be in the kitchen with him, that shows faith in my assessment, and gives me hope that she'll relax and let things roll. I really, really don't want to rehash what I did - even though I know I have to - but especially not where Zev will have to listen to it.

I finish my tea as the kettle begins to whistle, and Erin pulls it off the fire, refilling my cup and making one of her own. "Hey, you want tea?" she calls toward the kitchen. I can hear Zev cracking eggs and whisking, and smile at my toast. I wish I could eat omelets; they smell so good, but egg yolks do terrible things to my belly, and really, I think I've done enough barfing lately.

"Thank you, but no, I have a cup of coffee here," he replies, his voice carrying easily. "Perhaps after I have finished my run, later."

Erin looks at me sharply, stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea. "He goes for a run?" she mouths, and I giggle again.

"You should watch," I mouth back and gesture toward the window that faces the beach, nodding. She shakes her head, still disbelieving, but trying to wrap her head around it.

He enters, a plate balanced on a forearm, the other in his hand while sipping from his mug of coffee. "Ah, ladies, talking about me?" Zev's expression is amused. "No doubt pointing and gesturing so I would not hear. Tch, _cara_, are you bragging?"

I laugh and blush, caught. "Heyyy, it's girltalk. No boys allowed."

"Hmm..." He passes a plate to Erin, then sits on the floor at my feet, using my legs as a backrest. "Shall I borrow one of your dresses then? To be sure, there is not much women talk about that I have not heard before in some form or another. Tch, even those women on about- what was it? Boo-tux? Bo-taz? Bo-tox? We had similar things. Or their lovers, or their children, or the fact that they have a bunion or a yeast infection. Nothing new, but at least more interesting than men..."

Erin chokes on her tea a little, but recovers quickly, and I laugh. "Nooo... Don't put on one of my dresses. You might look better in it than I do, and then I couldn't bear to look at it again," I tease, running my fingers through his hair to braid it back for him, noting how much longer it has gotten in the last year. No more little braids, just a thick one to pull back so it will stay out of his face for his workout.

Tucking in to her breakfast, Erin makes an appreciative mumble, finally coming up for air a few minutes later. "Oh my god, this is great, I haven't had a good omelet in years. Germans do really bad things to eggs. Really bad."

"Hmm, why not make your own?" Zev asks, neatly eating his breakfast. "I could show you how I make mine; fresh herbs and vegetables are the most important thing to have on hand, and milk; if you forget the milk it will surely turn into a gob of... something... that only Alistair would be able to eat. Not even Ponka would, so it is good that he went with Sten rather than our good Chantry boy, otherwise the poor beast would starve in no time. At least Seheron has good food."

Erin laughs. "Awww... Seriously? He was that bad?" She shakes her head.

I snort. "That beast wouldn't starve. Too many rabbits about."

Zev casts a glance up at me. "Perhaps, but it was not your cooking that he was always begging for. It was Sten's or mine, as he danced around, or laid his head on his paws, whining piteously as though he had not had a single scrap in weeks."

Wow, here's another one of those things I didn't think about or write. All I can do is smile and shake my head, bemused.

Erin pokes at the last of her eggs, returning to her earlier theme. "I wish I had had time to cook. I work 18 hour shifts a lot. My apartment was someplace I went to sleep, and that was about it."

"Ah." Nodding once, Zev stretches a leg out as he sets his plate down, tipping his head back, eyes closed. I continue to run my hands over his forehead and now-braided hair, wishing I could smooth away some of the deep-carved stress-lines around his eyes, the ones that don't crinkle when he smiles. "Still, you should not neglect yourself like that. We each have only one body; it is a resource to be husbanded."

I laugh at the irony, dropping a kiss on his forehead, my fingers trailing down his cheeks. "Mmm... Then I guess it's a good thing you decided we should be married," I say, rubbing my cheek against the top of his head. I sit back, releasing him if he chooses to rise.

"Not the particular meaning I intended for the word, _cara_," he says, snorting at me. He stands up smoothly and gathers the dishes. "However, I think I prefer the sweetness of your definition, though I've no wish to have a husband of my own. Men smell funny."

Haha, he just quoted Captain Lydia; she said that to us at Halloween, by way of explaining why she can never settle down. "Yeah, I know. I can never get it out of the sheets," I agree with him glibly, and he shoots me an eyeroll that makes me snort as he leaves to get ready for his morning exercises. I sip my tea, looking at Erin over the rim of my cup, and she looks thoroughly disgusted, but with good humour.

Muttering, he disappears into our bedroom. "I do not believe it is me who makes the bedding such a way..."

Knowing he will hear me, and also knowing that Erin will not realize he can, I say, in a normal tone, "Ah, but even then, entirely your fault." Erin mock-gags.

I don't know how he does it, I still don't, but he's changed so fast that he has time to quip, "I claim the fifth, or whatever it is your people say. Something about not giving self-incriminating evidence...?" Before I can retort, he is already out the back door and jogging away.

Erin is on her feet in a hot second, and follows him with her eyes, watching out the window. I know how fast he is, I know he looks like a cat on the leg when he runs like that, and I smile into my cup, finishing it off. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, finally turning back to me. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, that's what I said when I woke up in the morning. Fortunately, I didn't say it out loud." I may as well get it over with, while I know he's not in the house. It doesn't take too long to explain the circumstances of my strange life, since she's already played the game through, herself, and she sits back, after all is said, staring at me, dazed.

"So, that's it. You just... got obsessive and he showed up." I can feel myself blushing, and bow my head.

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds really pathetic, but... well, something happened, wouldn't you say? Something quite real, actually."

She shakes her head, unable to argue. "And you're already havin' a baby?"

"Heh. Let's put it this way: if you were in my shoes, and it was Alipants who washed up out there, how long would it take you to get knocked up?"

Ah, and her blush says it all. "Fine. And don't call him that!" She scowls at me, but can't hold it. "So, then, why you, and not someone else?"

I shrug. "Ask the gods?"

She snorts. "Since when has that ever gotten anyone a direct answer?"

To this, I actually have a response. "Uh... November 11th, last year." She arches an eyebrow, and I smile. "That's our anniversary."

Erin shakes her head again. "He's not... what I was expecting."

I cock my head. "How so?"

She waves her hands, gesturing vaguely, trying to come up with the right words. "He's not very... assassin-y."

I laugh. "What, he's not like himself from the game, is that what you mean?" She nods, and I shake my head, looking down at my hands. "Of course he isn't. This isn't the Blight and there aren't any Crows. He no longer has anything to run from, nor anything to fight. He spends the bulk of his time studying, and then he also likes sparring at the dojo or with the Barbarian Horde, hanging out with Jack, going to the park to play with the 'childrens', or doing stuff around here. He cooks, cleans, helps with hauling around my furniture and stuff, and takes care of me when I get sick or whatever. It's a pretty quiet life."

"'Playing with the childrens'?"

I laugh, and tell her about the day he stopped that little boy from getting kidnapped. I fish out the newspaper clipping from between the pages of one of my Neil Gaiman books and hand it over. He doesn't like fantasy, so I know he'll never find it there. "They make him sound like a hero, but if you ask him about it, he says he just gave the kid back to his mother and called Jack to pick the guy up - no big deal. To a man who slew dragons, I suspect it really isn't much of one."

"He what?" She blinks at me.

"Well, that's the thing, he's definitely my Zev. Everything that happened in my game is what happened to him. So, though we've never talked about it, that means he killed both Flemeth and the Andraste dragon. Really, he was often my last man standing. I had Alistair and Wynne set to heal themselves and stuff, but I'd forget to heal myself, and fall. If I could keep Zev on his feet long enough, we always survived. He only got taken down a handful of times through the whole Blight - so few, that I remember them, actually."

I tick them off on my fingers. "The first time, of course, when we met him, and then Orzammar was awful: there was the mage in that big room at the end of Jarvia's thing - the only one to survive that was Alistair. Zev jumped in front of me and took a ballista bolt at Caridin's Cross, protecting me from falling... that one was bad. He got crushed when we were swarmed by golems at Ortan Thaig... that one was much, much worse. What really breaks my heart sometimes is that I know this is where some of his scars come from. There was the revenant outside the Old Hermit's camp in the Brecilian Forest - worst of all, that one was my fault, because I didn't know what it was and we were low on poultices at the time. The ash wraith at Andraste's temple handed us our asses, and... I'm forgetting one..."

"Our lovely mage with the impressive bosom had to revive me at that campsite." Zev is leaning against the wall by the bookshelf. I jump half out of my skin, as he practically detaches from the wall, sauntering to rest his forearms on the back of 'his' chair, behind me. "One of the few times I have ever succumbed to something foul attempting to put me to sleep. Tch, sloppy. Rookie tricks." He flicks his fingers dismissively. "For me to fall to something so amateur really and truly disgusts me. However, I was not down long; as I said, Wynne does have a magical bosom, and I had to rise to its call."

I cover my face with both hands, embarrassed... no, mortified, really, that he heard me talking with my sister, that it had to be this of all things, and gods, Wynne and her boobs, I'll never hear the end of them. At least this, if nothing else, will 'sound like him' enough that Erin may be convinced by now. Peering between my spread fingers at her, I see how pale she's gone... maybe him just appearing out of the shadows and the paint is more eloquent than anything we might've said.

"I'm sorry, love, I try not to talk about it," I mumble, looking back at him over my shoulder.

He snorts, leaning down to drop a kiss at my temple. "Think nothing of it, _amora_; it is nothing, but I do admit I am rather enamoured of the idea that I may add 'Dragonslaying Professional' to my resume." My Zev gives me another kiss, and slips an arm over the back of the chair to my stomach, touching my belly. "What do you think of your papi being a dragonslayer, my little Legume? Hmm? Has a nice ring to it, does it not? Perhaps we shall refer to me as 'Draga' instead of 'dada'? Hmm? Would you like that? Sounds splendid to me..."

I laugh, pressing my face to the side of his neck as he leans down, and I hear Erin snort. "You guys are disgusting," she says again, but I can hear the smile in her voice as she rises from the chair. Her footsteps head toward the kitchen.

Zev calls out, "You may wish to make use of some form of sound blocking device! I believe there may be a symphony tonight!"

Erin's fake gagging is clearly audible from where we sit, and I laugh again. "Yeah, we've lived in the same house before - when she was a teenager. Ugh. I know," she says. I blush and wince.

"Oh?" The arched eyebrow matches the wicked gleam in his eyes. He raises his voice again. "You may wish to make use of something in ten minutes! I give you fair warning! There are apparently past crimes I must seek restitution for!"

I look up to see Erin standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. "Yeah. She was a slut." She grins wickedly, turning away to grab her things. "And, uh, I think I suddenly remember I need to... go to the... library." She beats a hasty retreat, her coat barely over her shoulders as the door swings shut behind her.

The sudden tension in Zev goes through the roof, and the temperature in the room plummets. I freeze in place, not sure which way he's going to jump next. The back of the chair creaks in his grip before he sighs gustily.

"I do not like her calling you thus, _cara mia_." His voice is suddenly low and gritty, and I can hear the menace he is struggling with.

I try to explain. "That's just what she says... She always has. In our society, you know, a girl having more than one or two partners is really, really frowned on. She doesn't mean anything by it..."

"And I have always been called 'whoreson'," he counters, his tone a frozen wasteland. "I do not care if she is family or not, you are the mother of my child, my wife; I will not tolerate such... crude disrespect to be shown, particularly not by a guest. For her to call you something that implies that you are dirty in any way, shape, or form, will be met with swift action." The muscles tick in his jaw as he grinds out, "And if she calls you that again anywhere within my hearing, _cara_, or where our child may hear it, I will not be held accountable. Deal with it, or I will."

I am shocked speechless for a moment. "I'm so used to this particular epithet, I never even thought about it. I've had enough partners to number in the double-digits - surely enough for most to say it warrants-"

His hand goes to my mouth, pushing my jaw closed, firmly, without being forceful, and I quail at the steel in his eyes. "And then what am I, Lily? Hmm? Filth? I have been with hundreds, perhaps even thousands. I cannot even remember when I stopped counting. I was maybe seventeen when I gave up, and that was decades ago."

"But-," I protest, mumbling into his hand, "That's different... you're a man. Women aren't supposed to-"

Zev's mouth sets into a hard line. "I have been with sixty partners in a single night. The only reason I remember that number exactly is because that was the first time it happened, and was rather novel - at the time, at least - and yes I 'fucked', 'rutted', 'screwed', 'pounded', or any other word you choose to put to it, like an animal. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. In a single night." I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Gods, how is that even possible? Sixty? And he said, 'the first time', too. "But it is acceptable because I have a penis? I say that this is the biggest pile of bullshit, complete with flies and steam, that I have ever heard. You will not sit there and say such..." I shiver as I watch him struggle, searching, and then he simply curses, shocking me again. "Fucking filth about yourself, ever again, and if you continue to buy into it, I shall be sleeping outside until you figure out how to be an adult and a person rather than feel like a whore, because, my dear, you are not one."

Oh my gods. All I can do is stare at him, even as I realize that Erin has heard most of this from the doorway; I can see her from the corner of my eye, caught in the act of trying to pull her purse down off the hall-tree, both of us equally stunned and pinned to the spot. Had I thought we'd had a fight before? Nooo... Apparently, I've only seen him mildly irritated. Annoyed, maybe. I never, ever, want to see this look in his eye again.

My silence is met with that flat look and since I've yet to speak he breaks my gaze, doesn't even spare Erin a glance, and leaves the house through the back door.

"Hey, uh, I didn't mean-"

I have to swallow twice before I can speak, but I cut her off. "Erin," I rasp, "You probably want to wait until after dinner to come back." Before I can really turn to look, she has gone, as well. With no one left as witness, I put my head down on my knees and cry.

1. _Hamin, emma sa'lath_ - Relax, my one love


	21. Explication

It is hours before I can pluck up the courage to go outside and search for Zev. I find him sitting on the beach, staring out at the ocean. I want to just fall on my knees next to him and throw myself across his lap, beg for forgiveness, but the look on his face is so wintry, I don't dare even touch him. I sit down next to him, instead, curled in on myself.

"There are many things I find disgusting and distasteful with this world," he says, after a time, not even turning to look at me. "I am well familiar with the ideas of double-standards; I have lived with them my whole life, but I learned that they are simply fallacy. Yet, I find I must question how it is you are willing to be with me if, at your positively pathetic low number of partners in comparison to mine, you consider yourself a..." I watch him spit, another thing I've never seen him do. "_Slut_. It is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard you say of yourself, or believe, and it disappoints me. You are better than this. I may not be, but you are."

I hang my head, my eyes burning, and press the heels of my hands to them. "I just... There's no defence for it. I hold myself to a higher standard than I do other people, and I let the mores of society infiltrate my head, sometimes. I wasn't even aware of it, in this instance. It is... just how it is. Was." I sigh. "I'm sorry. Your past... I don't even think of it. It's... I wouldn't say it's not important, because you are yourself because of what has passed, but... It has no bearing on here, on now, on us. We _are_."

"Then why let yours interfere?" he asks, with his cold, hard logic.

I shake my head, at a loss. "It didn't. Not until Erin said something."

He grunts softly. "Again, I call 'bullshit'. This is what we are. People. We have parts, we have pleasures, pains, needs... Did you go into these things for simple fucking? Perhaps. But did you do it to sell yourself? Doubtful. You have no idea what it is to be a thing, a whore, nothing but sex for coin and no other value. Yes, it is most likely true that you have been treated as little more than a hole for a quick release. Most of us have been that, at some point." Zev leans forward, ripping sere grass up from the dune, tearing it apart in his hands. "You are not a _thing_, yet it is in the back of your mind. Only you can decide to be that; I can say all I want to the contrary, I can act this way toward you and treat you as a person, but if you cleave to it in the dark recesses of your mind, there is nothing I can do. I have already done all I can; I can do no more, can say no more. It is up to you, now."

Tentatively, I reach out, and lay my hand on his knee. "You're right. I did feel that way about myself, once. I've never been kept and sold for coin, but I've been used as a thing; I've been abused and sold for other reasons. My whole life wasn't defined by it, but it has happened, and... It's... It's why someone like Tommy was able to... take over my life, as he did, but... I've thought differently, for a long time now... Since I met you. The word has ceased to have much meaning for me. It does not define me."

"Then do not buy into it, not even in jest!" He waves a hand, irritated, dismissive. "You are a woman, a wife, a friend, lover, sister, and soon to be a mother. Never again."

"Okay," I say, softly, knowing he is right, though a small part of me tries to protest that he is overreacting. He isn't. It is the words we use, the meanings and the connotations behind them, that make the difference. Labels have meaning, even when we try to shrug them off. Just like me calling him my husband, or myself his wife: it could be true all it wanted, but didn't really affect me until I could _accept_ the labels as truth, until I applied them to us, in fact, instead of just in theory. "I'm sorry..."

The roughness of his palm where he covers my hand is soothing, a relief from the distance that has opened like a chasm between us. "It is not I you must apologize to, but yourself, and our Legume."

I sigh, twining my fingers with his, and look down at our hands. "I was a very broken person when you got here. You keep finding these... lost pieces of me, and putting me back together. You make me want to be a better person, all the time. I try, I really do. I am... I am more whole now, than I ever was in my entire life, before, and that's entirely due to you, and the way you see me."

Zev sighs as well, reaching out to pull me closer, and I sag against him, feeling forgiven at last. "That is good, then." I rest my head on his shoulder, and he presses his cheek to my hair. "I trust you informed your sister that she will not be repeating such a thing, so long as she wishes to be welcome in our home? For if she does, she may... hmm... How would Sofia put it, in that colorful manner of hers? Ah, yes. She can 'take her happy ass' out, and 'fuck off' until she apologizes, and if she believes I overreact, she may go and 'suck donkey dick', because I do not think I can bring myself to care much, if at all."

I whisper a small laugh against his neck, simply relieved that he is letting me next to him again. "She heard you, and she's not stupid. I told her that she didn't want to come back until after dinner. She'll want to talk more about it, I know, but I don't think she'll have any questions as to what you expect, and I'm certain she's not going to try and argue about it." It occurs to me that she's met Zev, too, on her own terms. It will be most telling for me, to find out how things went for her with him. I sincerely hope she doesn't tell me bad news.

"That would be most wise of her."

I shiver involuntarily as a cold gust of wind blows through my shirt, and suddenly regret not grabbing my coat. "Uh, can we go back inside? I miss the fire. Plus, I'm startin' to feel a little sick. I think I forgot to eat again."

He makes an irritated little grunt, lifting me with him as he rises, as though this is nothing - it's always nothing, somehow - and wraps his arm around me. "What am I to do with you, _cara_? You forget to eat, run outside without a coat like a madwoman... Tch. Impossible."

I laugh quietly, finally feeling like I'm back on solid ground. I don't really feel all that hungry until I have a plate in front of me, and then the smell of the broccoli hits me, and I'm suddenly ravenous. Zev is still being too quiet, though, and I watch him pacing, brooding even still. As I am rinsing off my plate, another one of my pregnancy hungers assails me, just as I feel the heat of him pass by my back, and I reach out to catch his hand. He turns, looking at me, and the familiar scent of him washes over me, makes all my small hairs stand to attention, and suddenly the only thought on my mind involves a lot of skin. I press toward him, putting my hand to his cheek as I lean up to kiss him.

He murmurs a soft sound of interest, his mouth opening for me, and I am pulled flush against him. I wind my free arm around his neck, my other hand sliding down his chest, going for the hem of his shirt. There's too much fabric in the way. I need to feel his skin under my hands, I need his stomach against mine and his breath in my ear, I need his hands tangled in my hair, and oh, gods, I need to taste him again.

I tug his shirt out of the waist of his pants and slide my hand up under it, splaying my fingers across his back. It helps, this little bit, but it's not nearly enough. I need to get both hands on him, like, an hour ago. Oh, patience: I will never have it. I run my fingertips down his back, from his shoulders to his waist, the familiar pattern of scars and muscle tugging at me, making me yearn for more, and I feel him stirring against my stomach. My mind is filled with other times, other moments we've shared, all the breath and skin and hands, and I am _starving_ for him. The beating of his heart against my breast, how it speeds, and the scent of him as I press my mouth to his neck, pull heavily on me and leave me breathless. I read an article that said pregnant women know the scent of the man who fathered their child, and will instinctively prefer it above all others. Oh, in this moment, I just want to roll in it. They must be right.

I want to touch everything, I want to press my face to every inch of his skin, but I need him to tell me it's okay; I don't know why, I just can't... do it, if I don't have that 'yes' in my ears. I lick my way across his jaw and nip at his earlobe, whispering fervently, "Zev- Zev I need you; I want to taste you." My hand slides down over his hip, pressing against his cock, making my meaning completely unmistakable.

He flexes strongly under my hand, and I feel his sharp intake of breath. "Mmh, what is stopping you? I certainly am not," he purrs.

That is all the permission I need, and I can't believe it, but I am practically shoving him backward. I need his cock in my mouth _now_. His hips collide with the counter and I yank at his shirt frantically, possessed with a crazed desire to lick him from head to toe, while his hands grab the counter for balance. My fingers fly over the buttons of his shirt, and I practically tear it open, my teeth skimming over his collarbone as the cloth of the shoulders slacken and fall to his elbows.

I am growling with frustration as my mouth descends over his chest. "Too many clothes! Overdressed!" My hands fall to his waist and I practically snarl as I encounter his belt; I forgot he was wearing it. The buckle is so complicated! My fingers scramble over it, searching for the tie that will let me get it loose, fumbling it apart, even as my mouth is busy licking every whorl of his tattoos, kissing every scar, tasting every line of his twitching muscles. I tug sharply at the top button on his pants, and they all give way in one swift motion - pop-pop-pop, oh, I love button-fly jeans - the sound having become a Pavlovian trigger for me, heralding the beginning of everything I desire.

I fall to my knees before him, straddling his ankles as my fingers curl into the opening my tugging has created. I press my cheek to his hip as I pull the fly aside, watching that thin trail of dark blond hair widen as the denim parts, revealing him already thick and waiting for me, pressed tight against his stomach by the confining fabric.

The scent of him, oh gods, I've always noticed it, it's always been there, on the sheets, on my clothes, a subtle thing that I would have to look for, or that I would just sometimes notice. The scent of your mate; everyone knows it, when they've lived with someone long enough. But this, this is totally new. He's like taking a hit of something illegal and potent, straight to my head like the first cigarette of the day, total euphoria, so strong it makes the room spin. My mouth waters and my hands begin to shake as I reach for him, smoothing my palm across that length of dusky, dark gold skin, a deeper shade of caramel, almost like homemade butterscotch, with that hint of burnt sugar. Oh gods, he looks good enough to _eat_.

I wrap my fingers around him, pulling him free; he is hard and heavy, his thick heat filling my hand, and I immediately lean forward, dragging my tongue from base to tip on the sensitive underside, feeling the veins ripple against it. I've heard people say before that there's no such thing as a beautiful cock. I beg to differ. As far as some are concerned, I've sampled more than my fair share, and it's true - generally, speaking - that the penis is a humble-looking creature, and, if it's lucky, maybe it's cute, though not all men consider that word flattering. However, it is men like my Zevran who gave rise to such tales as those of Adonis. If I were an empress, I'd be tempted to have bards spin tales and ballads that would put him down in the pages of history amongst such vaunted figures, except that would mean I'd be letting the world in on my secret joys, and I'm a jealous being.

Hmm, something I've had occasion to like the Chantry for is that they've never thought of circumcision. It always amazes me, how that little bit of skin can make such a huge difference. It is silken and pliant as I slip my tongue inside it, and taste the faint hint of sweat there, not much, just a little. The richness of all that is his natural cologne spills across my tongue, and I press that soft ridge of flesh to the roof of my mouth, sucking on it gently for just a moment before I swirl the tip of my tongue around his head, quickly pushing the sheath back and over the edge to pile at the base of his crown. I hear a small gasp from overhead as I pull back. The scent of him on my face, the taste of him in my mouth, it feeds the savage beast within, as I give her what she wants, and she begins to purr.

My hand tightens around him and I see that first, tiny little drop form at the tip as my other hand shoves his jeans further down his thighs, freeing him up for more of my touch. I need the weight of his sac in my hand. It fills my palm with loose velvet, and I roll my eyes upward, watching him as I turn my hand behind his balls, pressing the heel to his seam and curling my fingers forward to caress all that sensitive flesh. His eyes are scrunched closed, brow furrowed, and I see his ears snap straight to attention. It spurs me onwards and I lick my lips hungrily before I wrap them around the crown, sucking on his silken skin once more. He tastes salty, sweet, and so musky - just right, just so exactly right it makes me moan with want.

Letting him pop from my lips, I nibble at the bulging veins, and I can finally look away from my prize. Zev's hands are white-knuckled on the counter-top, all the muscles of his upper body locked tight. Gently rolling his testicles in my hand and stroking his length, I wait to catch his gaze, and very deliberately swirl my tongue over his tip before taking him into my mouth again, scraping gently with my teeth over the sensitive skin. His stomach muscles twitch, like he wants to snap his hips forward, but he doesn't. Oh, that won't do at all. I want to break his control. I want him wild, to unleash what I see in his eyes, instead of holding himself so carefully still.

Moaning around him as I suck, I let go of him in favour of running my hands over every inch of skin I can reach, trying to convey my voracity. Finally, I feel fingers tangling in my hair, and I whimper as he purposefully gathers a fistful in just the right place. I increase my pace, swallowing and exhaling on the downstroke, bringing my hands back into play, and am rewarded with a sharp hiss, followed by a twitch of his hips as his fingers flex in my hair. Oh, and this tugs on my spot again, making me moan, and so we create a circle feeding in on itself with every revolution as I change something about the way I am moving, each time.

He is rapidly coming undone, and I feel him grip the counter in earnest this time, as his control begins to crack. I moan even more, knowing what it means when I look up and see the raw pleasure in his expression, the way he is lost in me, completely unmasked, his eyes closed and his hair hanging in his face. It is the little, choked off gasp, that not-quite-groan, not-quite-growl he begins to make - the _sound_, oh, that is what I needed to hear - that tells me I've done right by him.

It has taken me a long time to figure out how to get him to make noise, especially during this, but now I take it as a point of pride when I can. It is this singular moment - if I watch carefully, sometimes I can catch it - where he lets go, finally, and I see him completely unguarded, when all his defences fall away and he is only here, only now, only with me. It only happens when I take everything else away, when I make him focus on nothing but his own bliss. He didn't like to let me, at first, feeling that it is somehow unfair to me, but I eventually convinced him that sometimes, it really is all I want.

I whimper as he suddenly cries out softly, and pulses between my lips. I know he's close; I can feel the thick vein along the bottom of his cock pulsing and shivering, and he is actually bucking against my mouth, just a little. I stroke all the sensitive skin of his stomach, across his hips and up the insides of his thighs, and he suddenly lets go of my hair, both hands on the edge of the counter once more, making that strange, strangled cry again, just a moment before he _moans_, spilling hot and thick down my throat.

I moan with him, swallowing twice, my hands flexing against his hot skin, and as I look up, there, there is that wild beast, there in those smouldering golden eyes. He yanks me up off the floor and spins me around, flipping my skirt up over my waist and pulling the tie to my panties. I gasp, catching myself on the edge of the counter as they land around my ankle, and my back arches as he buries himself within me. Something I love about my husband is just how very long it takes for him to go soft. He groans, as though in sweet relief, and I cry out, amazed at how close to the edge I am already trembling. I buck back against him, going up on my toes to give him a better angle.

Instead of the hard, frantic pace I am expecting, he puts one hand under me, against my pubic bone, and leans back, rolling his hips against me somehow that puts me in mind of the smooth rocking of a boat at sea. He is pressing against everything at once, and I hear my nails scrape across the tiles of the counter as he brings me shuddering and sobbing over the brink, soaking both of us. He murmurs a low sound of approval, continuing on, his free hand stroking the back of my thigh, curling in to pull me apart just a little further, and I feel his fingers in front sliding down into my slit, framing my pearl. I can't help but buck, oversensitive, even as the fire begins to build in the palm of his hand.

"Zev!" I wail, pushing back against him even more, and he growls, finally snapping his hips forward, hard against mine. I cry out once, twice, three times, and then I am breathlessly falling over the edge again, tumbling down with a strangled, stuttering moan. He catches me as my knees give way, and pulls me in to his chest, my skirt fluttering down to stick to our thighs.

"_Cara_," he murmurs, kissing the side of my neck as I tremble against him. I think he's going to say more, but he simply gathers me up and carries me back to the bathroom, where we share a hot, languorous shower. Our clothes are all over the house, and I gather them up as he heads into the kitchen to make dinner.

When Erin pulls up again, after dinner, Zev gives me a look, before retreating to the bedroom. I know he'll be able to hear us, but Erin doesn't need to know that. She comes inside, looking tired, and I give her a hug. "Am I still in trouble?" she asks, wearily, and I shake my head.

"No, sit down. Are you hungry?"

"Nah, I ate at some little Irish place in Aberdeen," she says, flopping down in Papa's chair and kicking off her shoes. She props her feet on the hearth and sighs with relief, wiggling her toes. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier; I didn't know that would piss him off."

I sigh. "Me either." I push the kettle over the fire and open the tea-tin. "You can't call me that again."

Erin snorts. "No, really? I thought I'd just poke him with a stick next and see if he pulls a knife." Her lip curls and I hold up my hands in surrender.

"It had to be said." She snorts again, but nods, looking away and into the fire again. There is silence for a while, and then I can't contain myself anymore. "Erin, what happened when _you_ met him?"

"Well, I'm Alistair's girl, so... Not what happened to you, apparently. But I... I dunno what happened. I couldn't get him to like me. No matter what I said, it was like he always took it the wrong way." She frowns into the fire, troubled now.

I wince. "Well, what happened when you met Taliesen?"

"He told the guy he wasn't going back to the Crows, but he wouldn't help me fight them."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "He stayed with you. Well, despite how you aggravate him, he must've liked you well enough, then. That bodes well, I hope."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. Does he do that a lot?"

I blink. "What, stand loyal?"

"No, get pissed off like that." She is watching me carefully, and I suddenly understand what it is she's really asking.

"No. In fact, I can honestly say, I've never seen him like that, ever, and I hope like hell I never do again." This is clearly both reassuring and disconcerting for her, and she looks down at her hands, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of her sweater. I pour the tea, and we busy ourselves with honey and stirring.

"So... I take it this is what you were talking about when you said you didn't kill Tommy?" she finally asks, and I nod. "If he reacts that way to just me, I can see why you wouldn't want to introduce him to Mom or Auntie Renee," she mutters, and I chuckle. She's right; even though I'm certain he could handle them just fine, I know they'd piss him off, because if Erin just being flip and not meaning it can set him off like this, Mom and Renee's opinions on my worthlessness will make him see red. After a time, she speaks again. "Can I ask you a question?" She worries at her lower lip, and I can't figure out what she'd want to know that would be that stressful to her, so I just shrug. "You said he jumped in front of you... Did he... Did he break tactics on you?"

I nod. "He did, and more than once."

"But... the others don't do that."

"Nope." She stares at me, so I continue. "He's the only one who does that. He's also the shortest man in the game, not counting the dwarves. All the bodies are cookie-cutter, except his; he has a different body-type than the other elven men: he's broader and more muscled by a lot, even when compared to the Dalish. He's the only companion without a side-quest, and the only one of the four who never got a 'background' quest - I mean, there's Witch Hunt, Leliana's Song, and Alistair has Redcliffe, but... He's different in a lot of ways."

She swallows. "Does that mean... when he did that in my game... I mean... I thought it was a glitch. Was I actually seeing..."

"_Phasmatis ex machina_?" (1) I ask, shrugging. "Who knows. Probably."

"But..." she protests, weakly, "If he's here, then..."

"Just don't think about it, okay? I couldn't function, if I did. He is here, and we are now, and that is all. Whatever is happening, I can at least agree that I am blessed, and I don't want anything about my life to change, at all, ever."

Erin snorts, gesturing toward my stomach. "Too late. Changes are already on the way."

I laugh softly. "Well, yeah, but you know what I mean. It's been months since I worried that he'd suddenly be snatched away from me, but that doesn't mean I'm taking anything for granted. He's... he's the best thing that ever happened to me, Erin. I was just a shadow of a person before he got here. They say... Well, they say that if magic happens, it's by extraordinary acts of willpower. He comes from a place where there _is_ magic, and we were both so torn up... I don't know. Something about us was meant to be, and I just... I need him so much, I don't dare question it. I'm his, and that's all that matters to me."

She sighs sadly. "Man, why couldn't I get Alistair? I was sad when my game ended, too."

I shrug. "What did you do at the end?"

"It said we ran off to run the Grey Wardens together."

"Well, then, there you go. Your avatar is still alive on Thedas. He had no reason to be wishing so hard for you, because he still has you."

"So if I did Ultimate Sacrifice, I could?"

"I doubt it. You can't do that kind of thing on purpose, you know. If that were possible, the world would be filled with stories like ours."

She sighs again. "Yeah... Still. How awesome would that be?"

I shudder. "Uh. For you? I dunno. Me? I'm glad he stayed put."

"What? Why? You don't think he would've protected you?"

I shake my head. "It's not that. I mean, sure, he probably would - he's my brother. But... He's not as resilient. I don't think he could have rolled with this life and all the changes it means, not like Zev. He's like a cat - always lands on his feet. Alistair's more like a dog - loyal, protective, and fierce, sure, they have that in common, but for Alistair, that's it. Zev's had to be highly adaptable. Alistair, I'd still have to be holding his hand; Zev's pretty independent."

"You don't think Alistair's smart enough to make it here?"

I shake my head again. She doesn't get it. "No, I'm sure he is, but what he is not is _flexible_. Not like that. I think he wouldn't have believed that this is real. I think he'd always be wondering if I were a desire demon, if he didn't just decide that I am, and kill me. I think he'd really freak out when his magic didn't work. Or, worse, what if it did?" I shake my head. "No. Alistair lacks the subtlety needed to survive in this place, not being from here."

"The Chantry boy is the product of his upbringing." My Zev's voice is even, cordial, but anyone who knows him like I do is aware that this is not his true 'friendly' voice. He is speaking as he exits our bedroom, probably satisfied - I hope! - that I've dealt with Erin. "If one were told so often how a thing is, to be suddenly told that all they knew is not any more solid here than a book on high school vampires is factual... It would cause a crisis of faith that he would not be able to accept. Alistair spent his entire life knowing that certain things were true, no matter what. If 'C' is the same as 'B' and 'A' added together, then 'A' can _never_ be the same as 'C', yes?" He parks himself on the armrest beside me, and I lean my head against his side. He drops his arm over my shoulders as he continues.

"I, however, have never been told anything other than that the unexpected can happen, and that it would be entirely detrimental to my health if I did not learn to cope with all changes that are thrown my way. One does not live past thirty in the Guild and still be inflexible." He gestures, his hand gracefully flexing, illustrating his point. "The Chantry, of course, would always tell their followers that things are a certain way, so that no questions ever arise, particularly questions on the parts of Templars. Just think what sort of insanity would happen if suddenly a Templar wondered if the apostate child he just killed was truly an abomination, or simply a victim of the Chantry's laws? And however would the Chantry control the population, without fear and rigidity? Hmm? Free thought is the ultimate crime in those types of places, and Alistair is far from stupid, but he is entirely a byproduct of the Chantry. Do not doubt it."

Erin mulls this over, nodding. "Hmm, yeah..." she says, reluctantly. "I see your point. The Church here hasn't been much better." She sighs, looking forlorn for a moment, and then perks. "Hey, you would know: how old is Alistair, anyway?"

The look Zevran gives her is nonplussed. "You think there was any reason for me to say, 'oh and by the way my friend, how old are you as I wish to knit you a pair of socks?' No. Why would _I_, a whoreson slave, ever wonder about someone's _birthday_ or age, beyond a general guess?"

She sighs, sagging back, disappointed, and waves a hand. "Eh. Things like that always come up in conversation. It was worth a shot." I can see how hard she tries to ignore the fact that he just called himself that, but I'm not going to let it go, and I shoot him a look.

"_Ar dirth'din, ma dirth'din, emma sa'lath_," I say quietly, putting my hand over his. _If I can't say it, you can't say it._ "_El revas mana sahlin. El isala mahvir._" _We're free of the past now. We need tomorrow._ He glances at me, and I see the acknowledgment there, though he doesn't vocalize it. I suspect that, in this instance, the epithet was more to make a point than anything else. His gaze is much cooler when it swings back to Erin.

I can practically hear his thoughts, especially when he goes to the kitchen, and I hear a few cabinets open and close... liquid being poured... and downed... and then another. Generally he's more of a social drinker, and the fact that he hasn't offered any to Erin is a loud and clear broadcast. I wonder if the only reason the Zev in her game didn't betray her was the Feastday gift of brandy.

Watching as my husband returns, a large tumbler filled with rum, neat, in his hand, I'm pretty sure I know what the answer is: a resounding 'yes, I must be drunk to deal with this woman'.

I wince, looking up at him. "Uhh... Hmm... _Abelas..._?"

Erin looks at me funny. "What is that language? I don't recognize it."

My eyes swing to her, my gaze flat as my tone. "Who was your avatar?"

I hear Zev take a deep gulp of his drink and go back for more, a resigned air about him. Apparently he really does have to be drunk.

"Uh... I was human. Why?"

In the background there is the dull 'clink' of ice, and yet another fresh set of pouring. Gods, I'm so sorry baby... That has to be his fifth glass; if he doesn't slow down he might make himself sick. Well no, actually, he probably wouldn't, but even still, a drunk Zev can be cute and amusing, but a Zev that has to be drunk to deal with particular people is a hungover Zev the next day.

"Okay, good. Don't worry about it." At least I know she won't have any way to figure out what we're saying. I'm really, really glad we started using Elvish again. I get up and abandon Erin by the fire, going into the kitchen, and wrap my arms around his waist from behind, resting my face in the hollow between his shoulder blades. "_Hamin, emma sa'lath. Tan'vunin, halamshiral._" _Relax, my love, it's only three days until the end of the journey._

"_Hamin? Atisha'din, emma sa'lath. El'felas falon, ir'felas. Na'lin, nehn'din, serannas'din!_" _Relax? No, my love, there is no peace. She is stupid/shallow. Your sister brings nothing positive here, and is rude!_

I wince. "_Abelas, emma lath... Ma suledin? Emma asha'len el'arla din. El arla da'reth tan'vunin. Tan'vunin._" _I'm sorry, my love... Can you endure? My little sister does not live with us. Our home will be safe in three days. Three days._

He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Tch. _Ar nuvenin sahlin'revas,_" _I want freedom now._ he mutters, then sighs. "_Tan shem'vunin?_ Tch. _Ar suledin._" _Three short days? I can endure._

"_Ma'ar lath. Shem'halam._" _I love you; it will be over soon,_ I say, tightening my arms around him. "_Emma vhen'lin sulevin ir'harel. Emma asha'len him nehn enansal._" _The rest of my family are certainly worse. My little sister looks like a joyous gift._

I'm glad that Erin can't see the look of horror that he doesn't even bother to veil as he catches my eyes over his shoulder. "_Braska! Affanculo!_ (2) I am beginning to wish you had simply met me on the ship, at this point."

I sigh heavily. That does not bode well at all. I just have to get him to hang in there for three days. She'll be gone again, and then he won't be trying to drink himself to death. At least now I'm pretty sure he gets why I didn't introduce him to the rest of my family; my previous explanation wasn't exactly coherent, but I think the example is more eloquent than anything else. My sister's the best we have to offer; if she's enough to drive him to drink, my aunt and my mom don't stand a chance.

"_Ma'su na'tisha in'ar?_" _Can you find your peace in me?_

"Always," he whispers, turning in my arms to embrace me. "Always, _amora_."

I smile, burying my face in his neck. It is enough.

1. _Phasmatis ex machina_: ghost in the machine  
1. _Affunculo!_: Italian swear-word, akin to 'fuck it all!'


	22. Spilled Ink

_Possible personal triggers; no violence. Reader discretion advised._

Thanksgiving is beautiful. Zev and Sofia outdo themselves, and my happy little 'fambly' eats the best meal I've ever had, because we've come together over such overwhelming odds. Looking around the table, I cannot help but smile, so grateful for everything I've been given. When it comes my turn to say what I'm grateful for, I burst into tears instead, overwhelmed by happiness for the first time in my life. Zev on one side and Erin on the other, both hug me, while Sofia and Jack make sympathetic noises. I finally calm myself once more, laughing self-deprecatingly, and admit that I'm just pleased to be having a holiday season that includes family and love.

Erin only stays for three days, and so as December looms, heralded by a squall that knocks out the power, she takes her leave. Having the house returned to the state it was in when Zev first arrived makes me a little nostalgic, and I reflect on the last year with alternating joy and melancholy. The pregnancy emotions are really kicking my ass. The power is only out for three days, this time, but it is enough to irritate Zev, who begins speaking of alternate sources of power. He has an idea that we should use solar panels, but out here on the edge of storm country, they're not as useful as one might think. We're considering the idea of solar leaves, this new thing called 'solar ivy'; it has these leaf-shaped photovoltaic cells attached to a matrix that lets them wave in the wind, also taking advantage of wind power. I want to get some of that. It's pretty, and it would ensure that we still have hot water in a storm, which would be a nice change.

The week fades as the power company finally hooks us back into the grid, and Zev and I make a couple of trips into town to ship off a lot of items in time for the Christmas rush. Afterward, my shop looks curiously empty, and I am inspired to create some new designs. I spend more and more time with my sketchbook, because the legume is beginning to feel crowded and does not like me moving about like that so much.

One morning, the second week of December, when I wake up, I'm not sick. I bumble into the bathroom and stand there, stupidly staring at the toilet for a minute, but for once, I feel no urge to barf. None. I smile crookedly. Could it be over? Oh, that would be great. I can get on with the purportedly ̒awesome' part of being pregnant: the time between ̒I'm too sick to look at you' and ̒I'm too big to move'. I take a shower, instead, enjoying the sudden freedom from nausea. I stretch, feeling a curious floating sensation in my stomach, expectant and fluttery. I look at myself sideways in the bedroom mirror, at this little bump that fills both my hands now. There is a little half-elven baby in there. Maybe the first, ever. I am so lucky, so blessed.

I decide to take the day off, to celebrate my suddenly nausea-free existence, and put on a dress, pleased with the way it stretches over my rounding hips and suddenly slightly more ample cleavage. I determine that today will be a day of sketching the carvings I'll be limited to, once my ability to move around the shop is lost. I eat a quick breakfast, then gather up my pencils and sketchbook, throwing a scarf and a hoodie on, and head outside. I curl up in a chair on the front porch, staring out at the water.

Inspiration hits, and I begin sketching out mobiles. I could make maybe a dozen of them: an octopus top, every pair of arms suspending a figure, and then one in the center. Starfish, sand dollar, fish, seahorse, clamshell. If I burn the details and just carve the shapes, I might be able to do more of them. After a time, Zev appears at the end of the porch, breathing heavily, and leans against the post, knocking sand from his boots. "Ah, you're up early, _cara_."

I shrug. "Mmh. Back hurts." This is so typical, it's barely worth mentioning... although, it is the first time in a while that it's been bad enough to drive me from sleep. I stand up and stretch, the chair having become uncomfortable. When I put my arms down, a sudden wave of dizziness overtakes me and I reach out for the table, but Zev is there, steadying me, pulling me into his arms before I can fall.

"_Cara?_" The thread of worry in his voice bothers me, and I open my mouth to reassure him, the dizziness is passing, when a sharp pain strikes me right between the hips, and I cry out, doubling over.

_Oh, no._

I gasp, the pain gone as soon as it came, and straighten up, looking at him, wide-eyed. His expression mirrors mine, and I take a shaky breath. "Something's wrong." My voice is almost missing. The horror washes me white as a sun-bleached bone. I can feel it. It's like... Oh, I don't want to say it. Oh no. "Spilled ink," I whisper, my eyes locked on his.

His dusky gold skin goes ashen. Immediately, he scoops me up in his arms, and races across the porch, pausing only long enough for me to lean down and grab the door handle before he kicks it open the rest of the way. He lays me on the couch, and I want to fight, to insist that I'm fine, but I suddenly feel so weak, so helpless. My limbs are filled with lead and inertia; reaching out to him, dragging my hand up to lay across his leg takes a monumental force of will. With a cell phone in each hand, he is dialling two numbers at once. "Jack, Sofia – Lily- No, it's Lily!" There is a pause as I watch him force himself to calm. "The baby- She is- She is having... problems. I need help."

I don't catch all of what else he says, because everything feels faded and grey. I know this feeling. It's happened before, and I know that by the time I could get to the hospital, it will be too late. Why do I have to live so far from town?

A sob forces its way out, and I whimper, choking on it. I see my cell phone land on the table, off, as he continues to speak on his own. Distractedly, I realize Sofia is with Jack. There is a faintly trembling hand stroking my forehead, and I feel so bad, so horrible. I dragged him into this, made him part of my broken life, and I've nothing to give him but sorrow. Only sickness and loss. "I'm sorry," I try to whisper, but it gets lost in the roaring in my ears. I feel so clammy, a cold sweat that has my dress sticking to my skin. I realize I'm staring, just staring, at the corner of the coffee table. I'm so cold.

No, I can't give in to it. If I can just, if I can fight hard enough, if I can just hang on... My hand flexes on his thigh, as I ride through a hard tremor, closing my eyes and swallowing my pain. This isn't happening. It's not. I'll be fine. We'll be fine.

I barely notice that he's off the phone, until he's leaning over me, stroking my fingers every time my hand clenches on his leg. "_Cara_, help is on the way. Just breathe, I am here."

"Breathe, fight, hang on; breathe, fight, hang on," I mumble repeatedly; it becomes my mantra. I focus everything on that, hanging on, not letting go, not shaking, not crying. If I can just be strong enough... Another cramp rocks me and I clench my jaw to keep from screaming, from balling up. I have to hang on. I have to try.

It's when I suddenly smell the acrid scent of amniotic fluid and blood that I finally break, with a ragged wail: "_Nooo_!" I sob desperately; I can't help it.

Zev makes a soft sound, and it's like he knows, knows better than I do, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, lifting me enough to cradle me against his chest. He tucks my face into his neck, his warm neck, moist and covered in sweat. "_Cara_... I am here _cara_. Breathe with me," he murmurs, and I close my eyes, finally giving in to the shaking, trying to match my breathing to his. His hand encircles mine, and I whimper, unable to deny what is happening to us anymore.

Tommy is reaching out from beyond the grave and snatching this from us, taking things away from me, even still. I'll never escape him, his spidery fingers in everything, poisoning my life. The front door opens; I barely hear it, and then Sofia and Jack are inside, and Jack, bless his heart, takes one look at me and says, "She's in shock. She... needs to get warm."

For a second time today, I am scooped up as if I weigh nothing. "Fill the tub. I shall undress her." All I can do is stare, blank and going numb inside as Zev carries me into the bathroom, while Jack shakes his head.

"She can't be submerged, Zev. It... can cause a back flow. Infection."

"Tch." He makes an exasperated sound, and I can feel Zevran struggling to keep his cool. "Fine, turn the spray on; I shall sit in the tub with her. Please: light the fire, pile the blankets." Sofia rushes off; I can tell it's her, even in this wasteland, I can tell by that strange little hop-bounce that never, ever, leaves her step. Jack, sometimes I forget that he had to get EMT training. Being a rural police officer means that you have to pull double duties sometimes, in certain situations. Like right now.

I don't want him to see me like this again; it's so much worse. This time it's my failure; I'm not strong enough anymore. "Don' wanna be..." I'm crying, choking on the words, on the verge of hysteria. I don't want to be weak, I don't want to be here, I don't want witnesses, I don't want _this_.

"Shhh..." Jack doesn't touch me, he only turns so he can catch my eyes. "Shh... Girl, this isn't your fault. Listen to me: you have to fight that. We're here. We're all here. We'll help you get through this." The last is said to not just me, but Zev too, who is stripping himself one-handed, before lowering our combined weight onto the cold porcelain floor of my big claw-foot tub.

It hurts every time my muscles contract, but Zev keeps massaging my stomach under the hot spray. I wrap my arms around Zev's legs, my hands flexing on his knees, just enough sense left in my head to stop myself from scratching him. Jack is gone only long enough to grab extra towels and blankets. Sofia and he sit in the steam-filled bathroom, both quiet, both lending their silent support. Strangely, it doesn't feel like an intrusion right now. I can't be grateful for it at the moment, but I know I will be later.

There's a... strange, rolling, shuddering, spreading sensation. Unpleasant, _wrong_, but not... painful... Then again, this part, the part that's... coming... It doesn't hurt the body, no... I go still and suddenly have to retch. Flailing upward, I roll to the side, hanging my head over the edge of the tub as someone gathers my hair up and out of my face, but all that comes is dry heaves and a small amount of bitter, stinking bile. Strong hands continue to knead my stomach, and for once I want nothing more than to shove his hands away from me. I want to deny it, I want to scream, I want to fight and make it stop, go back to last night, to this morning, just a few hours ago when I was looking at my belly and thinking what a future we were going to have, but I don't. I can't find the breath or the strength.

"Sofia." The voice by my ear is firm, just like the hand wrapping around my chin, and forcing my head to the side, my eyes pressed against his throat so I can't see.

"Oh gods," I whimper, so quietly I wonder if anyone heard me at all.

"If you please...?"

There is a quick rustle of fabric, and I sense Sofia come close, and then she's leaning over the tub. A hand is too close to where I don't want it, but I know, I know she's only doing what must be done. I shudder and shake, unable to do more than that, not allowed to do more than that. Arms like titanium bands hold me immobile. Sofia backs away, and I feel the brush of a towel against the inside of my thigh, folded around something. Not some_thing_, but I can't think about it, can't even look at this idea out of the corner of my eye, I don't dare. It is breaking me.

I don't know how long I lay in his arms, lost to the despair and the pain of it. Sofia murmurs something about blood, and then Jack's voice recedes to nothing but a rising and falling tone in the background; their voices simply can't rise above the hiss of the shower and the sound of the breath in my ear.

"Zev..."

Things fragment, and the next thing I know, I'm laying in bed with Sofia curled up behind me. I mean, I know that Zev carried me in here, I know there were towels and they were talking, and blankets, and I think I screamed, scaring everyone, but I can't get a grip on it. It slithers out of my grasp like a startled fish. My hair is in fat, wet, heavy braids; how much time did I lose? Everything hurts; I feel bruised and hollow. I am filled with a horrible, crushing, soul-sucking emptiness.

I hear a choking sound, faint, from the living room, then a couple more, and some rasping hiccups... Oh... Jack and Zev... My thoughts alight on the little bundle, a butterfly's touch, and I know, my mind sliding away from the horror of it, trying not to notice what I've already figured out. "I'm sorry," I whisper, because I can't reach him, because I wasn't strong enough, because he is stuck having to take care of me. _Again_.

Carefully, block by block, I start building my walls back up. Staring at Zev's pillow, I drift in and out of consciousness, slowly and carefully separating the pain from the numbness, cutting the agony away, leaving myself nothing but a grey shawl of emptiness. I wrap it around and cover me with it like a shroud. I am a pile of broken stone and ashes in the snow.

The sun has moved across the room and Sofia has been quietly sleeping behind me for a while, occasionally making cooing noises to herself, when Jack and Zev come back. Jack wakes up Sofia, and they retreat. Zev slides onto the bed in front of me, and he looks horrible, as horrible as I feel, and just like that, my carefully-built new shell has a crack in it. I'm so selfish; I knew this would happen, but I always try to reach for things that I don't deserve, and I drag other people down into the darkness with me. _Oh, baby, I wasn't trying to sell you seafoam and sand dollars... I wanted so badly to believe..._

I try so hard to stay strong, to hang onto that stone quiet, but I never could keep my thoughts off my face, and he shakes his head, his hand rising in my peripheral, his fingers tracing the curve of my eyebrow. I close my eyes, and the tears come again, rising in me and choking me once more. His lips press to my forehead, and I reach for him, suddenly drowning without him. Gently, carefully, he gathers me to him, and I curl against his chest, sobbing brokenly. "I'm sorry," I gasp, "I'm so-" but before I can get any further, he silences me, kissing me softly, and I can feel the tremble in him.

"No, no, _nulla_, Lily, no, not your fault, _dolcezza_; shh, none of that, no blame," he murmurs earnestly, peppering my face with kisses, even my leaking eyelids. "Cry for anything else, but not that. Shh, _amora mia_, Lily, no, I am here. Let go of it _cara_, let it out, I am here."

"Zev," I sob, clutching myself to him tightly, and he folds me in his arms. I shake and cry, I don't know for how long, until I am finally wrung out completely, and then I sleep, long and blessedly dreamless.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The next day, I let Zev drive, because I am just too washed out to even think about it, and I fall asleep on the way there. He drives like a grandpa, all hunched over the steering wheel and paranoid, but he can do it. I let him take me into town to the doctor, so she can be reassuring for Zev that everything is fine and I just need rest. I could tell there was nothing left. "If your next cycle is normal, then you can just carry on as usual, and you would be safe to try again, if that's what you've a mind to do," she says quietly, then takes her leave, offering to answer any further questions we might have or make a house-call if anything goes wrong all of a sudden.

I'm still too weak to party when Yule rolls in, so Sofia drags Jack over, and the boys set to making roast beast outside while Sofia and I cleanse the house. "I can't believe we didn't do this last winter," Sofia comments, tucking a little charm into the end of a curtain rod.

I hang a little phoenix in the centre of another curtain. "I know." Dipping my finger in the bowl of ocean water in my other hand, I draw a pentacle on the sash under each window, murmuring the blessing for the house over each one. Sofia waves a strand of smouldering sweetgrass, the scent spreading to pervade the room. "We should have sealed the house right away."

The front door stands wide open, as Sofia and I go around the house, methodically 'sealing' every portal to outside, save that door. Starting in the back of the house, we begin the banishing chant, chasing out any bad spirits or lingering ghosts, pushing them out the front door with the power of our voices - our spirits - and the assault of the other four elements: earth and water in the sea water, fire and air in the burning sweetgrass. As I move beneath the mantel piece, I find a little cross, tucked up in the crack between two of the bricks. I remember Jack wearing it, once upon a time, and smile. In the kitchen, a little cat stands guard over the window, one of Zev's charms, and this, too, makes me smile. Sofia has hung a maiden/mother/crone triptych by the back door, and I've put my green man facing the front. A pair of Japanese Fu dogs watch over our bedroom, there's a fairy door in the sewing room, an imp gargoyle in the mudroom, a sphinx in the master bathroom, and a winged-cat gargoyle in the spare bath.

That should fix it. I hope.

I may not have everything I want in my life, but I certainly have cause to be thankful for the family I do have. Despite what has passed, I can still count myself a lucky woman. I close the door behind whatever spirits we might've chased out, sealing it with another pentacle, as Sofia continues the rhyme of banishment until the seal is closed.

"From now forward, only light, love, and laughter is allowed between these walls; only family, friends, and the will of the gods may enter. So mote it be!"

"So mote it be!" Sofia says with me, and the house is quiet for a moment until Wanderer leaps up on the back of the chair next to me and meeps.

"I'm pleased you agree," I tell her, rubbing her head. "Don't eat the fairies, okay?" She blinks up at me, the picture of cat-eyed innocence, and I lean down to kiss her nose. I sink down into the seat, taxed, and Sofia gives me a sympathetic look.

"I'll go find out what the boys are doing with the meat, and then I think you and I have earned some fruit salad."

"I heartily agree," I say, and she skip-hop-bounces out the door.

I look at the place on the floor, in front of the hearth, where a monster once died, at the hands of a man who, quite literally, faced down dragons and lived to tell about it. Our quiet little life is so prosaic, compared with that, and yet, he's so happy here... I fold my hands over my empty stomach. Zev saved me from the monster; the least he deserves is my faith, but I struggle every day to give him everything else, as well. Every piece of me, of my life, all that I am and all that I have, offered up to him. There has to be more, though. I have to protect him against the darkness that will some day come and claim him, when I fall.

Again.

Oh gods, what am I doing to him?

Gradually, I realize that I'm staring at a pair of work boots. _Hold on tight, baby. Both hands._ I look up, my eyes snapping up to where a face should be, but, of course, my father died when I was sixteen. There are no boots there, just the floor and flickering firelight. "Thank you, Daddy," I whisper, smiling a little, even as an errant tear tumbles out of my eye. He may not have been around much when I was a kid, but every time something really went wrong and I needed him, he showed up, right in time.


	23. Final Curtain

**Author's notes: **  
This is the last instalment of Wings. I want to thank everyone who was so encouraging and who gave me such wonderful feedback; you've truly been the only reason I continued to write the series.

_Spilled Ink_ was a difficult chapter for me to write, and because dealing with miscarriage has been one of the greatest tragedies of my life, it broke my momentum, and the same thing happened to Lily. She just couldn't go on like she had before. I hope that you will find this to have been worth the wait.

This is different: it's a flash object.

It can be found through my main profile - bellaknoti [dot] dreamwidth [dot org].

Please be patient with the pages, they can take a moment to load (about 10-12 seconds at most).

**Story Credits:**  
Kismet _repair of my Italian/Antivan_  
Rhion _all the long nights of planning and brainstorming_  
ScaryLady _my amazingly patient beta_  
ZevGuy _the Voice and the Hands _(I love you)_  
_

**Art Credits: **  
_DeviantArt artists whose stock I used for the flash object_  
~wkj-stock: red curtain stock  
~ms-an9el: psd curtain  
~frozenstocks: victorian grunge freebie  
~arghus: grunge floral paper texture

Thanks again for reading. Best wishes...

-b


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